


The Second Hand Unwinds

by dragons_in_the_north



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Earn Your Happy Ending, M/M, Time Travel, a very literal Fix-It fic, there is a happy ending i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_in_the_north/pseuds/dragons_in_the_north
Summary: “I’m here to see Mr Carson.”And then Thomas stepped forward as if from thin air. He looked ridiculously dashing in his valet’s suit, strutting about in that theatrical way of his. Affection and relief buoyed Jimmy’s chest. Thomas had always looked out for him, always protected him. Even in these insane, mixed-up circumstances, Thomas would be on his side.Just like that, Jimmy knew why he had been sent back in time. He understood what he was meant to do. He would make Thomas fall in love with him all over again, exactly as before. But this time Jimmy would love him back.The year is 1933. Jimmy Kent is riddled with regret about how things ended between him and Thomas, and what could have been. When he wakes up one morning in the year 1920, he is determined to fix what went wrong, fashioning a love story for the pair of them. But the past is not precisely how he remembers it, and winning their happy ending may prove more difficult than he could imagine...
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Comments: 38
Kudos: 182





	1. London, 1933

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a detailed story prompt from tumblr user fuckyoucanada, which you can read [HERE](https://fuckyoucanada.tumblr.com/post/186158907225/ok-but-im-a-slut-for-time-travel-and-i-love-thomas). (Warning: Spoilers!)

The young man wasn’t bad-looking, really. His face was a bit long, and his nose a bit crooked, as if it’d been broken and not set properly. But he was tall and slim and had the sort of full, pouting lips a person rarely saw outside of the pictures. “Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”

Jimmy leaned back on his stool to give him a proper looking-over. The fellow was a few years over twenty, his hair perfectly coiffed, a smug grin playing at the corners of his mouth, the fingers of one hand tapping out a nonsensical rhythm against the wood grain of the bar. Memories of himself at that age drifted to the surface—a silly footman who didn’t know what he wanted until he’d ground it to dust beneath his heel. The ever-present hole in his chest began to ache at the edges.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, like he always did, and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

The other man frowned. Jimmy knew what he was thinking well enough: Why hang around a place like this if you weren’t hoping to push some attractive creature up against a wall in the alleyway and bugger him senseless? He gestured to his mostly empty pint glass. “I was just about to leave, you see.”

“Ah,” said the man. His eyes were already roving about the room, searching for a more receptive partner.

As Jimmy slapped a handful of coins onto the counter, his wedding band glinted in the low, orange light of the pub. Not such an unusual thing—plenty of men in the place were wearing one. “I have to be getting home,” he muttered. But the man was already gone.

Jimmy stepped out into the night air. The chill sobered him up a bit, which was the last thing he wanted. He stumbled his way down the street towards his shoebox-sized flat in the East End, where his wife kept fresh flowers in a milk bottle on the kitchen table, where his wife ironed his trousers in the mornings before the sun was up, where his wife slept soundly at that very moment, certain in the knowledge that he had gone out for a drink with some mates from work.

He’d met Evelyn not long after arriving in London. She was the youngest daughter of Jimmy’s foreman, and she had a good head for figures, so she would often turn up to help with the books. Right away, he’d seen that she wasn’t like Ivy or the other simpering, empty-headed girls he was used to. She wore her dark hair in a modern sort of bob; her hooded eyes flashed dangerously whenever the factory men made kissing noises in her direction. She was clever and quick with a joke and not morally opposed to a bit of fun. So they had a bit of fun together—a lot of it, actually. One evening, she turned up unannounced at the room he was renting, her eyes red-rimmed and her hand cradling her still-flat stomach, and Jimmy realized he hadn’t just gotten himself into trouble this time, he’d dragged someone else along as well.

It would be a lie to say he married Evelyn because he loved her. It would also be a lie to say he married her out of some sense of compassion or duty. The truth of it was that he was tired. Since leaving Downton, Jimmy hadn’t stayed in one place for more than a year. He’d wandered aimlessly across England, always looking for the next job, the next bed, the next hot meal. And now he was on the wrong side of thirty. His handsome face was weathered and worn, his hair hung limply against his brow. After a long shift, he’d be wracked with backaches and hand cramps. It was time to settle down. Everyone settled down eventually.

_We don’t all have the option_ , a familiar voice whispered from the back of his mind, and Jimmy winced.

Only after the wedding did he start visiting _those_ kinds of places. He told himself in the beginning that it was a way to avoid the mistakes he’d made with Thomas. If he understood how men of that sort behaved, he could keep himself from giving a fellow the wrong impression again. But every time he spotted a couple of blokes kissing in the corner, something sharp and hot would clutch at him—something so much stronger than what he felt when Evelyn lay beneath him, gasping and digging her nails into the skin of his back—and his arguments became a little harder to believe. Still, he never did anything more than drink, refuse men’s advances, and leave. He wasn’t entirely sure why he kept coming back. There were men in that pub risking prison for the promise of another person’s touch, a fleeting moment of connection. Jimmy was sticking his neck out for nothing at all.

Maybe he was hoping he’d be there one night when the place was raided. Maybe he was hoping he’d be carted off to the police station, and Evelyn would be woken in the dead of night to spring him. Maybe he was hoping she would see him for exactly who he was and be disgusted. Maybe he was hoping she’d tell him to leave and never come back, baby or no.

Reeking of drink and smoke, Jimmy opened the door to his dark flat and took off his shoes first thing, mindful of the creaky floorboards. It was only the one room; to his left he could just make out the silhouette of the sagging bed, Evelyn lying on her back beneath the covers, the hump of her belly jutting upwards like a hill in a landscape. He eased the door closed and left his shoes beside it, shedding the rest of his clothes as he walked over to the bed.

Hours earlier, shortly after dinner, Evelyn had been pacing up and down the flat, as she often did when the baby refused to stop kicking for love or money. Jimmy sat on the sofa, thumbing through an old issue of _Pearson’s Magazine_. His wife would waddle into view occasionally, rubbing her swollen stomach and huffing like a carthorse. Each time, his eyes were drawn to her middle as inexorably as the pull of gravity.

“What do you reckon?” he said. “Boy or girl?”

Evelyn rested for a moment, leaning heavily against the arm of a faded wing chair. “Oh, a boy to be sure. Me ma thinks so, too. I’m carrying low, and me feet are like ice at night, even when I prop them up by the stove.” Her cheeks glowed pink from the exertion. “I suppose we’ll name him James. Like his daddy.”

James Kent Sr had been a stern, exacting man with a precisely-trimmed mustache and deep frown lines permanently carved into the sides of his mouth. Sharing his name had always felt to Jimmy more like a burden than a gift. He remembered all too well the choking, helpless feeling of being five years old and staring dumbly down at his own blonde curls littering the floor, his father patting his newly-shorn head and saying, _There. Now we match._

Jimmy didn’t want that for his son.

“We should call him Thomas.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but there it was.

Evelyn tilted her head, her hand cocked at her hip. “‘Thomas?’ What made you think of that?”

_My best mate is named Thomas. I haven’t seen him in years, haven’t even sent him a letter, but he saved my life once. He loved me so much and, oh God, Evie, I think I loved him back, I think I love him still._ He dug his nails into his palms until they left behind a row of purple crescents. “No reason. Just like the sound of it, is all.”

Much later, Jimmy crawled into bed beside his wife, his head still buzzing from the ale. She made a small noise and shifted a bit more towards his warmth, but she didn’t wake. Lucky for him, she was a sound sleeper. Settling his head on the pillow, Jimmy brushed up against the swell of her belly. He tried to think of the baby inside her, really he did, but all he could see was a clock. Round, pale moon-face staring back at him; black, spidery hands traveling along in steady increments; ceaseless ticking counting out the seconds. When she gave birth, it would all be over. He would be well and truly stuck.

He closed his eyes, and a scene played out behind them, as clear as a film projected onto a screen. He saw himself get up out of bed, walk out of the flat, down the stairs, out onto the street. He walked through Spitalfields, heading north up Commercial Street until he left London altogether. As he walked, towering, densely-packed brick buildings gave way to thatched cottages, then sprawling, empty countryside. The sun rose in the west and set in the east, whirling dementedly through the sky as the stars and moon winked in and out of existence, time reversing itself with every step he took. In a matter of minutes, he was making his way up a gravel drive, Downton Abbey huge and grand above him. He didn’t have to ring the bell by the main door. Thomas answered immediately, looking just the way he had when they’d met, wearing that soft smile only for Jimmy.

The world stopped churning, and everything slotted neatly into place. Jimmy understood just what he had to do. And that was when, quite suddenly, darkness overtook him; he knew nothing more.


	2. Yorkshire, 1920

It was too bloody quiet. That was the first thing Jimmy noticed when he surfaced back to consciousness. He ought to be hearing the sputter of automobiles puttering down the road, the strident cries of dirty-faced newsboys, the low thrum of bodies moving in waves across London city. Instead all he could hear was birds. After a moment, other sounds came into focus. Wagon wheels and hooves clattered against pavement. Nearby footsteps echoed against the floor, a door opening and closing shortly after. The too-soft noises of the country, like his ears were stuffed with cotton.

He opened his eyes. His bed was too narrow; Evelyn was not lying beside him. The room was small, and the furniture was uglier than their own but better cared for. He went over to the window. Outside, he could see a stretch of green, a post office and a chemist’s to either side. Just underneath his window, a weathered sign read _Grantham Arms_. He was in Yorkshire—not just that, he was in Downton.

Jimmy blinked, and blinked again. The image didn’t change. So—he was still dreaming, then. But he couldn’t quite convince himself of that. A rug worn down to the weave scratched against his bare feet, a housefly buzzed around his head—these little details felt too solid and real to be conjured from his mind. When he opened the window a crack, the scents of freshly-cut grass and horse droppings greeted him. He could never smell things in his dreams.

Perhaps… perhaps he hadn’t been dreaming before, not entirely. He might have actually travelled to Downton from London—not by walking obviously, but by train. He’d known men who, years after the war had ended, never really left the battlefield. The shellshock would take over, and they would believe themselves to be in Ypres or the Somme, bullets whizzing past and bombs exploding overhead. Maybe Jimmy’s mind had played a similar trick, making him think he was still a footman at the Abbey, that he was supposed to be there.

Then he turned around and saw, neatly laid out on a chair, his dark grey suit. A suit that couldn’t possibly be there because he’d sold it in 1926 to a second-hand shop in Leeds for train ticket money.

Feeling like he might be sick, Jimmy stumbled out into the hallway. A tall, long-faced woman was walking by with a broom in her hand—Mrs Jacobson, he remembered. Her husband owned the Grantham Arms, and she would clean the rooms for let in the mornings. She stared wide-eyed at him, and he realized he was still barefoot and wearing pyjamas.

“What year is it?” he asked her.

“Sir?”

Jimmy’s head was near to splitting open. “The year!”

The woman gripped the handle of the broom so tightly her knuckles went white. “1920, o’course. What other year would it be?” And she scurried off down the stairs with a furtive backward glance.

Despite shaky legs threatening to give out on him, Jimmy managed to make it back to his room, sitting down on the end of the bed with a heavy _whump_. He glared at the suit on the chair opposite. The day was May 10, he knew that much for certain—the day he’d first come to Downton Abbey to interview for the footman position. It was the only reason he’d be staying overnight at this inn during the year 1920, his clothes freshly ironed and a used train ticket laying on the vanity. The way he saw it, he had two options. He could get back into bed, crawl under the covers, and refuse to leave until he was in 1933 again, one way or another. Or he could go to the interview in the hope that, by repeating the past, he would wake up or come to his senses. He chose the second, but only just.

The walk to the Abbey was long enough for the panic to recede to the corners of his mind, at least. He’d traveled this path on foot countless times; the familiarity comforted him. Just so long as he focused on the solidness of the road under his shoes or the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, he could avoid thinking about the fact he was probably either stark raving mad or a bloody time traveller out of an H. G. Wells novel.

By the time he rang the bell at the servants’ entrance, he’d nearly convinced himself everything was perfectly normal. A distracted hall boy answered the door. Jimmy was ushered in before he’d even finished explaining himself. Standing in the corridor, it hit him all at once— his memories of this house and the reality of it overlapped in a disorienting tangle. He felt as if he were drunk, or moving underwater. He made his way towards the servants’ hall, fighting to keep his breaths slow and even.

As soon as he knocked at the entryway, what seemed to be a hundred eyes were peering at him. The maids gasped. Alfred gawped like a landed fish. The first time around, he’d been delighted with all the attention, especially from the pretty girls. Now he was an oddity, an aberration, a man cast adrift across the years, and the stares might as well have been condemnations.

“Hullo,” he managed.

“Can we help you?” asked Anna.

Jimmy’s mouth appeared to know what to say better than he did, forming the words of its own accord. “I’m here to see Mr Carson.”

And then Thomas stepped forward as if from thin air. He looked ridiculously dashing in his valet’s suit, strutting about in that theatrical way of his. His head twitched curiously from side to side, like a bird’s; red, full lips parted gently in an “O” shape. Affection and relief buoyed Jimmy’s chest. Thomas had always looked out for him, always protected him. Even in these insane, mixed-up circumstances, Thomas would be on his side.

Just like that, Jimmy knew why he had been sent back. He understood what he was meant to do. He would make Thomas fall in love with him all over again, exactly as before. But this time Jimmy would love him back.

“Who’s this?” Thomas said.

Jimmy grinned. _Oh, Mr Barrow, you’ll find out soon enough._

\---

Tempted though he was to simply get Thomas alone and kiss him senseless against a wall, Jimmy nixed that idea from the very start. Thomas fancied him right off, sure, but he didn’t _love_ him yet. Probably he would find such a forward gesture more alarming than romantic. Certainly it would give the impression that Jimmy was in the habit of kissing any man who glanced at him twice, which he was _not_.

Besides, there was Miss O’Brien to think of.

Jimmy had nearly forgotten about her over the years, but she made her presence known soon enough, sneaking up on him when he was distracted like some dour, black bird of prey. “You look a bit puzzled,” she said, and Jimmy nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I am,” he replied automatically. He turned towards her. She’d put on a friendly face—a motherly one, even. If you knew what to look for, though—and Jimmy did—you could spot a hint of malice glittering in her eyes, cogs working double-time in the back of her brain.

Thomas had never told Jimmy about the role Miss O’Brien had played in his unwelcome advances, probably out of embarrassment. But, shortly after she’d left for India in the middle of the night, Jimmy had overheard the Bateses whispering in the servants’ hall, and he’d gotten the gist of it. She’d played them both for fools, and he wanted very badly to tell her to bugger off. Or at least not make such a show of hating Thomas’ attentions. He couldn’t see a way around it, though. If she believed him to be genuinely interested in Thomas, O’Brien would simply decide to drive them apart instead, or worse, bring the police down on their heads. Jimmy had ruined enough chances in his life, he didn’t intend to let this last one be spoilt as well.

No matter how much it hurt to watch the old witch dig her claws into the man he cared for so dearly.

So he played nice. He told her how Mr Carson had handed him clockwinding duty, and oh dear he didn’t know a thing about clocks, did she know anyone who could help? As O’Brien spun her web, he took a little pleasure in the knowledge that her machinations would only drive Thomas right into his arms. And once they were properly together, Jimmy was certain the two of them could come up with some sort of scheme to ensure she never bothered them again. What a cheering thought that was. He went upstairs with a definite spring to his step. He was beginning to suspect, a little daringly, that he might have gotten the hang of this after all.

Jimmy’s first clockwinding lesson with Mr Barrow—before all this time reversing itself business—had been frankly bewildering. Once he’d found himself alone with this odd, handsome, painfully earnest man, with no audience of gossipy servants hanging about, he entirely forgot to play at being charming or clever. Yet Mr Barrow liked him anyway. When Jimmy reached up to turn the key, Mr Barrow was warm and solid against his back. His strong hands guided Jimmy, steadied him. Lips close to his ear spoke in a patient, even tone of voice, explaining precisely what to do. All of this combined sent a thrill up Jimmy’s spine, his head light and floaty.

Then the servants’ door had opened, a gaggle of maids pouring forth to change the bedsheets, and reality came crashing over Jimmy in a wave. A firm voice very much like his father’s reminded him in no uncertain terms that he was a proper, red-blooded man—the sort who would never enjoy the touch of another bloke, not even if that bloke amused Jimmy by treating a clock like a tempermental dinner guest. He stared pointedly at Mr Barrow’s gloved hand out of the corner of his eye until the other man let go of his shoulder, and moved away.

The second time around, an older if not wiser Jimmy trotted after Thomas into the front hall. He didn’t care that he looked like an overexcited puppy. His father and the maids and everyone else could all go hang. He knew what he was about now; if Thomas caught on to his eagerness, so much the better.

Thomas came to a halt in front of the grandfather clock beside the main staircase. “We can practice with this one,” he said. He inclined his head towards Jimmy. “You have the winding key, yes?” Jimmy held it up for him to see. “Good. You’ll want to open the glass cover, put the key in the hole, and turn it clockwise—gently, mind—until you start to feel resistance.”

Jimmy stepped forward—and Thomas stepped back, standing off to the side, watching with an expectant expression. The metal key slotted neatly into place, but the warmth and solidness and guiding hand didn’t come. He waited long enough for Thomas, from a damnably appropriate distance, to raise his eyebrows questioningly. Stomach sinking down to his shoes, Jimmy winded the clock by himself. It was _wrong_. How could things be playing out so differently now? _Come on, Thomas, touch me._

“I think it’s pushing back a bit,” said Jimmy.

“Well, there you are. Never go past the point where the clock is comfortable.”

Pasting an uneven smile onto his face, he turned to face Thomas. “You make it sound like a living thing.”

As the valet spoke about his childhood among clocks, his eyes soft and alight with pleasure, open and unguarded in a way he hardly ever was around anyone, all Jimmy could think was, _You’re supposed to touch me._

The maids arrived. Thomas replaced the glass cover, and next thing Jimmy knew they were heading down the stairs. With each step, a growing panic clawed more insistently at the back of his throat. The intimacy between them didn’t seem so set in stone anymore. _I need you to touch me._ He stopped on the landing, Thomas slightly ahead, and blurted out, “I really am grateful for your help, Mr Barrow.” The seductive, husky quality to his voice sounded more strained than he’d intended. “You’ll let me return the favour, won’t you?”

Thomas froze mid-step. Jimmy’s chest expanded with the fervent hope that he would turn around and say something cheeky in return, give Jimmy an obvious once-over. He didn’t turn around. Instead he said, his shoulders stiff and his back very straight, “I don’t think that’s necessary,” and he hurried down the remaining stairs two at a time.

Above them, the clock Jimmy had fiddled with chimed the hour, a low, solemn toll that echoed right down to his bones.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Jimmy blinked, the fog around his mind clearing, his surroundings coming back into focus. He sat with Alfred at a rickety table in a cramped room, the two of them steadily polishing their way through the second-best silver under Mr Carson’s orders. Half-heartedly he wiped at the chafing dish in front of him with a dusting cloth. “Nothing’s wrong,” he muttered to the woodgrain.

“You’ve been in a foul mood all week,” said Alfred. “Don’t deny it.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Mind your own business, would you?”

A spoon slipped from Alfred’s fingers; it clattered noisily against the stone floor. He huffed—either in response to Jimmy’s comment or his own clumsiness—and ducked down to retrieve it. “Just didn’t want you sitting there moping while I did all the polishing.”

_At least I’m not dropping the Crawleys’ good silver onto the dirty ground_ , Jimmy thought, but Alfred was, annoyingly, right on the money for once. He’d tried to put the clockwinding with Thomas out of his mind, really he had. He might’ve even succeeded, except that now he was more aware of Thomas’ every gesture and comment—and how sometimes they didn’t quite align with his memories.

The thing was, Thomas refused to touch him. Oh, he was _friendly_. He always had a smile or a joke or a piece of advice for Jimmy. He still cast lingering glances at him that bordered on indecent. But he never grasped Jimmy’s shoulder, never sat next to him on the piano bench so that their thighs were pressed together. When Jimmy leaned in close, he shuffled backwards as if they were performing some strange sort of dance. The other evening, after following Thomas outside during his smoke break, he begged a cigarette off him and made sure to run his fingertips across the other man’s knuckles when he reached up to grasp it. Thomas’ hand jerked back like he’d been burned, the fag falling unlit onto the flagstones below.

Frankly, it was worrying. Between Jimmy’s blatant interest and O’Brien’s encouragement, Thomas ought to have been plenty eager to get his hands on Jimmy. Unless Jimmy had somehow wandered off the trodden path, as it were. He might have unintentionally put Thomas off; that seemed like the sort of thing he would do. Or worse, Thomas hadn’t _needed_ to be put off because the interest wasn’t there to begin with, his feelings simply weren’t—

No. No, Jimmy wouldn’t finish that thought.

He shoved the chafing dish away and grabbed a nearby bread tray. With a sigh, Alfred dragged the dish towards himself, making a show of scrubbing at a grease spot Jimmy had overlooked. He ignored him. The cool, unyielding metal in his hands was solid reality, and his fears dissolved into smoke before it. He breathed in, then out, marshalling his thoughts back into order.

The changes in Thomas’ behaviour were minor, really. If time was a fast-flowing river, these differences would be ripples in the water, fanning out and disappearing without a fuss. Jimmy had gotten the job at Downton, hadn’t he? And he and Thomas got on, didn’t they? Those were the important bits. Thomas’ affection may be better hidden than he’d expected, but the man would reveal himself in time. Soon enough, Thomas would be so ridiculously soppy Jimmy would have to clap a hand over his mouth to keep him from declaring his love at the breakfast table.

He had to be patient, that was all, Jimmy told himself as he polished the tray with renewed vigour. He didn’t stop until his own face was shining back at him. His arm ached, but it was a good ache, a satisfying ache. Being patient would have been impossible for the old Jimmy Kent. Perhaps it was impossible for the new Jimmy too, but at this point, what was one more impossible thing, really?

\---

The worst part of Lady Sybil’s death, at least the second time, was the waiting. Sitting at the servants’ table late into the night, idly shuffling a deck of playing cards, Jimmy’s stomach churned as cheerful faces and inane chatter slid in and out of his awareness like a demented carnival ride. The urge to tell someone, anyone that in a few hours, a young woman would be cold and grey and an infant motherless was a physical crawling beneath his skin. But who would believe him? And even if someone did—Mr Carson, say—what could they do? The baby was already well on its way.

“Show us a card trick, Jimmy.” His misery had so overwhelmed him it was fooling his eyes—Thomas’ skin appeared wan in the flickering lights of the gas lamps, the corners of his smile strained.

Mr Carson strutted in, announced the birth, and everyone shuffled off to bed.

“Good news,” Thomas said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Do you like Lady Sybil?” asked Jimmy, feigning innocence.

One night in 1924, an uncharacteristically squiffy Thomas had said to Jimmy, quite out of nowhere, _She was the best of that whole upstairs crowd. Bloody unfair that she’s dead in the ground while her grandmother celebrates her hundred-an’-tenth._

Jimmy hadn’t needed to ask who he meant. Nodding, he passed him another of the ginger biscuits they’d nicked from the cupboard.

Thomas continued, head slumped forward and eyes glassy, _She tried to help Edward, really she did. Went up before Dr Clarkson an’ everythin’. Not ’cause she loved him the way I did, but just ’cause that were the kind of person she were._ He nibbled meditatively around the outside of the biscuit, scattered crumbs landing on his shirt and tie. _I owe her everythin’ for that. An’ I can never pay it back now._

Jimmy didn’t ask who Edward was either. Thomas was too far gone to give a coherent answer, and he understood well enough anyway. Pain bloomed in his chest, right behind his ribs; he inhaled sharply through his nose and did his best to will it away. Obviously, Thomas had loved men before Jimmy; hopefully, he would find some bloke to love after. Jimmy had no right to be hurt by the reality of this, not after all the unpleasantness following the kiss in his sleep, not after making it clear that it could never be like that between them.

_You look after Miss Sybbie, don’t you?_ He nearly reached up to pat Thomas on the shoulder, but thought better of it. _I reckon that counts for somethin’._

Thomas didn’t seem to hear him. He scrubbed at his face with his gloved hand, leaving an angry red streak behind on his cheek. _Branson didn’t deserve her_ , he said, quietly but fiercely. _None of them deserved her._

I don’t deserve you, a voice replied in Jimmy’s head, and the truth of it made him catch his breath.

As they stumbled up the stairs to the men’s quarters, studiously avoiding leaning on one another for support, Jimmy decided to send Lady Anstruther another Valentine come February. Things had gone disastrously with Ivy, but that was no surprise—she was young and naive, unaware of how it all went on between men and women. What he needed was a woman of experience. That would sort him out, _that_ would clear away these muddy, confusing feelings hanging about him.

Probably the flirtation would come to nothing. A lady past her prime would feel desirable again, and Jimmy would have something to laugh about with Thomas on their smoke breaks, and that would be the end of it.

In 1920—a time both before and after Thomas’ drunken speech—Thomas said, calmly and clear-eyed, “I do. We worked together in the hospital during the war, so I know her better than all of them, really.” He pushed in his chair and beamed at Jimmy in that familiar, awkward, eager-to-please manner. “She’s a lovely person. Like you.”

Dully, Jimmy noted that Thomas didn’t touch his arm.

He could sense Miss O’Brien somewhere just outside of his field of vision, gearing up to launch another assault, but he was too tired and too miserable for her petty games. Instead he yawned and mumbled something about catching forty winks and not-so-accidentally trod upon her skirt when he passed by.

It was only in the aftermath of Mr Carson delivering the news, stunned silence ringing out like a gunshot, that Jimmy realized how terribly wrong he’d been. The waiting was not the worst of it. No, watching Thomas’ eyes go all hollow and lost, watching him stagger out of the room as if in a trance, so no one would see his tears—that was the worst thing, the absolute worst. Automatically, Jimmy’s body swayed in the direction he’d gone. He very nearly went after him. He would’ve let Thomas cry into his shoulder, offered to stay with him in his bedroom until morning. For once, seduction was not at the forefront of his mind; he was only thinking of his mother’s death in her dusty, airless flat, how after they’d taken the body away, he was left to sit alone in the dark. He didn’t want Thomas to be alone.

But then Anna followed a heartbeat later, and the moment was gone.

The next morning, when Jimmy told Thomas, “I say your grief speaks well for her,” he didn’t wait to see if the other man would reach for him under the table. Without hesitation, he put his own hand over Thomas’ and gripped it firmly, reassuringly. And there it was, totally unmistakable—an answering squeeze. Something heavy fell away from Jimmy’s chest; his lungs filled with sweet, blessed air. It took everything in him not to grin like a loon.

\---

Jimmy had just laid out a spread for a quick game of solitaire in the servants’ hall when Alfred began nattering on about a film they were showing in the village hall called _Way Down East_. “It’s about a wronged woman who survives in the wilderness through her own wits and courage,” he said with a distinctly unsubtle glance at Ivy.

A sense of familiarity prickled at the back of Jimmy’s neck. Certainly, everything was familiar these days, but this felt especially so, as if someone had walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. Ah, yes, Alfred was about to invite Ivy to a late showing, wasn’t he? While they were gone, Jimmy and Thomas would have a little chat, and then Jimmy would go to bed, and then… Oh.

He’d been so focused on the day-to-day wooing of Thomas Barrow that the larger picture had slipped his mind entirely. Obviously, he’d come up with a plan earlier on, aided by weeks of sifting through his memories. The trick of it was to keep Alfred from barging in on Thomas and him together without Thomas thinking he was being put off. In the end, the solution had been simple—once night had fallen, Jimmy would wait for Thomas to come upstairs, then go knocking on his door with some excuse. Thomas would of course invite him in, and well, nature would take its course. Alfred wouldn’t think to look for him there, but Jimmy would stick a chair under the doorknob just in case, before he became too… distracted.

“Are you going, Jimmy?” asked Ivy.

“Sounds a bit soppy, to be honest.” Anyway he had better things to do with his evening, he reckoned.

As the rest of the day crept by, Jimmy caught himself watching Thomas’ hands and mouth even more than usual, wondering what Thomas might do once they were alone in his bedroom. Would he pull Jimmy into a kiss as soon as the door was closed, or would he perhaps first declare his love in some flowery speech? There was precedent for the former, to be sure, but Jimmy was inclined to put money on the latter. Thomas could be bloody romantic, provided Jimmy was conscious at the time.

Slouching against the kitchen wall, Jimmy glanced up to find Ivy, Daisy, and Alfred all standing at attention, their eyes fixed intently on a spot behind him and just to the left. “Tell me, James,” a voice boomed, and Jimmy shot to his feet, “has your spine been mangled in some sort of horrible accident since I last saw you?”

“No, Mr Carson.”

“Then why, pray tell, do you feel the need to wrinkle a perfectly fine set of livery?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Carson. It won’t happen again.”

A curt nod. “See that it doesn’t.” The butler turned to Alfred, who was looking quite smug by this point. “You can take in the fish and meat tonight. James can follow with the sauce.”

Jimmy wasn’t overly upset by his demotion. True, Alfred was a ninny, and true, Jimmy was clearly the superior first footman. But years spent digging ditches and hauling crates had put things into perspective; there were far more unpleasant jobs than serving béchamel sauce to a bunch of self-important toffs. Still, when he spotted a familiar figure smoking in the hall, he made sure to complain a bit on his way upstairs so he could stand close to Thomas while he dispensed advice.

He also rearranged the spoons on Alfred’s platter to make a mess down the front of the Dowager’s dress, although that was more private revenge for Alfred calling the police than anything else.

It wasn’t until Jimmy wandered into the servants’ hall with a cup of tea that evening, suddenly face-to-face with Thomas sitting and reading the paper, that his plans felt like something more than idle fantasies. Tonight everything was going to change—again. For the better, now that he had a say in it. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

“They’ve gone to bed,” said Thomas. “Except for the picturegoers, they’re not back.”

Despite the faint clatter of dishes being put away by one of the kitchen maids, the two of them were, for all intents and purposes, on their own. O’Brien wouldn’t be sticking her nose in right away; if Jimmy fancied it, he could lean over the table and press his lips to Thomas’. And he did fancy it. But even to a man with knowledge of the future, that seemed a terrible risk, so instead he cleared his throat and said, “If I’d thrown a bucket of slop in the old lady’s lap, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the flicks.”

Thomas leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows drawn together. “What are you saying?”

“Mr Carson doesn’t like me.” Thomas smiled and huffed out a breath as if to say, _I know how that is._ “No matter what Alfred does, he still prefers him. It’s not bloody fair.”

Hands danced back and forth, a cardboard packet thumbed open, a cigarette passed from right to left, a lighter appearing between long, pale fingers like a conjurer’s trick. “Well, I love you,” Thomas said.

Inside Jimmy a dam broke open; powerful relief swept over him, his legs threatening to give way. “If you do, you’re on your own,” he managed around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“I’m sure I’m not. What about your family? Where are you from?”

Jimmy told him about his mother’s and father’s deaths, hoping he was making some sort of sense—he could only hear a small voice singing out, over and over again, _He loves me, he loves me._ When he was done, he said, “And you? Do you have any family, Mr Barrow?”

Thomas was visibly taken aback, his chin jerking up, smouldering cigarette halting halfway to his lips. Perhaps it had been a mistake to ask—in all their years of friendship, he’d hardly ever mentioned his life before service—but when he spoke, he sounded pleasant enough. “My parents are alive and well, I think.” Jimmy’s confusion must have been plain to see, because Thomas added, “They don’t write much. My sister lives with her husband up near Cardiff. Oh, and I’ve a cousin in Bombay, of all places.”

“Your folks are scattered to the four winds, then.”

Thomas shrugged. “One mile or a thousand, it’s not much difference to me.” He tapped loose ash into a nearby saucer. “Funny, we’re quite a pair.”

Jimmy smirked behind his teacup. “And what sort of pair would that be, Mr Barrow?”

It was damned satisfying to watch Thomas blush like a silly girl. He gathered himself up as if to answer, but at that moment Miss O’Brien poked her head in. For once, Jimmy was glad of it—her entrance provided the perfect excuse to retreat upstairs. In his room, he dressed in pyjamas and robe, scooped up a deck of playing cards he kept on the nightstand, and pawed through dresser drawers until he found the brandy he’d bought in Ripon the week before. The bottle was about two-thirds full, amber liquid sloshing against the sides as he walked over to the bed. He sat down to wait.

After what felt like ages, footfall echoed down the men’s corridor. Jimmy allowed a few more minutes to pass, then crept out into the hall. He knocked lightly on Thomas’ door. A turn of the knob, and Thomas stood half-dressed on the other side—still in his trousers but with only an undershirt and bare feet besides, braces hanging loose. Dark hair was escaping slightly from its pomade hold, the faint shadow of stubble darkening the skin above his upper lip.

“Hullo, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy said, grinning. “I couldn’t sleep. Fancy a game of cards?”

His heart thudded against his ribcage once, twice. Through the thrum of excitement, Thomas’ face swam into view, ashen and drawn. Light glinted strangely from his eyes; his nostrils flared. Jimmy glanced down to see trembling hands shoved into trouser pockets.

“Afraid not,” said Thomas, voice low and dead of feeling. “I’m knackered. It’s straight to bed for me.”

If Jimmy had learned anything from his unexpected journey, it was that certain things could never be changed, not even by a man who could travel through time. On a May night in 1920, Lady Sybil would always die, leaving behind a daughter bearing her name. Three weeks later, Thomas would always reveal how he truly felt about Jimmy, one way or another. But then—Thomas’ look of horror finally, finally sunk in—he just had, hadn’t he?

This wasn’t a ripple in the waters of time, this was the whole bloody river changing course, sweeping him out to sea. Still, a naive, desperate part of Jimmy stirred, one last defense against the encroaching numbness, and he pleaded, “Just—just one hand—”

“Jimmy, _no._ ” He might as well have been a dog Thomas was shooing from the dinner table. Jimmy’s heart cracked right down the middle, neat as you please. Perhaps it showed on his face, because Thomas’ expression softened a bit. “You should ask Alfred when he gets back. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Right,” said Jimmy, unaware of what he was agreeing to. “Right, I will. Good—” The door slammed shut. “—night.”

As he turned and shuffled back to his room, the corridor distorted into a disorienting hall of mirrors. His door stretched impossibly far, miles away; he had to lurch towards it like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood. Once inside, he stood in the dark, legs unsteady beneath him. He balled up his robe and threw it across the room. Although it was a warm summer night, he was shivering.

Thomas didn’t love him.

The why of it didn’t really matter, but Jimmy tortured himself with the possibilities all the same. Perhaps Thomas sensed the brokenness that hadn’t been in the original Jimmy, and he didn’t fancy helping this older, sadder one put the pieces back together again. Perhaps in this series of events, Thomas had a man already—someone from the village, the butcher’s son or a shopkeeper’s assistant—and he was as devoted to that fellow as he might’ve been to Jimmy. Or perhaps this was simply the laws of nature reasserting themselves; in the tale of Thomas and Jimmy, one of them was always fated to be unloved and miserable. It was his turn now, his punishment for trying to fix things.

Jimmy tipped the bottle of brandy up to his lips, but the warmth sliding down his throat barely registered, and the mere thought of drinking himself into a stupor made his stomach turn over. The glass clinked as he set it down beside the bed. He crawled beneath the covers.

If he hadn’t failed utterly, he and Thomas would be, at that very moment, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Thomas would kiss his neck, and Jimmy’s eager fingers would hike up the hem of his undershirt to caress soft, pale skin. They would tumble together onto Thomas’ bed. Nibbling Jimmy’s earlobe, Thomas would murmur something ridiculous, like that Jimmy was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. And Jimmy would roll his eyes, and call him a loon, and blush down to his toes, and be so terribly, terribly _happy_ —

A ragged, gasping sound tore out of him. A sob, he realized at the feel of hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He curled into a ball under cold sheets, alone, a slice of moonlight knife-sharp against his pillow.

Behind him, the door creaked open. “I know it’s late, Jimmy, but I’ve got to ask you—Oh, you’re asleep.”

Jimmy hurriedly swiped at the wetness on his face with his blanket and rolled onto his back. “What do you want, Alfred?”

Either the dim lighting hid Jimmy’s red-rimmed eyes or Alfred was blinded by his own self-righteousness, because without hesitation, he puffed out his chest, lifted his chin, and said, “Ivy thinks you’re interested in her, but you’re not. It’s not right, stringing along a nice girl like that. You have to tell her the truth.”

No matter how hard Alfred tried, Ivy would never love him. In three years’ time, both of them would be gone from Downton, living their own lives on opposite sides of the Atlantic. But on that summer night in 1920, he was convinced that she was the love of his life, and Jimmy was—well, he was tired, that was all. The last time he’d been so tired, his pregnant wife was snoring beside him, another man’s cologne clinging to his hair.

“Fair enough. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

Brow furrowed and mouth pinched, Alfred said, “Do you mean it? Or are you trying to make a fool of me?”

Jimmy sat up a bit, balancing on his elbows, and clasped his hand to his heart. “I swear it. Stick a needle in me eye and all that rot. Now would you kindly sod off so I can get some rest?”

He drifted off just before dawn. Hovering on that hazy, imprecise border between waking and sleeping, he prayed. He hadn’t prayed since he was a boy, not even when he’d been called up to the front, but he pleaded to somebody, anybody, _Send me another dream to take me back to the beginning. I can do it right this time, I know I can. I’ll drown him in love until he has no choice but to feel the same. Just give me another chance, please._ And then sleep settled over him, impenetrable as a veil.

No such dream came.


	3. Yorkshire, 1933

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is not canon compliant with the Downton Abbey movie.

Thomas knew it was going to be a rotten day when he woke up with an aching back. In the trenches during the war, he’d slept on a thin, lumpy pallet, his feet damp and freezing in his boots, rats scurrying centimetres from his face, his head ringing with artillery fire, yet he’d never woken up with an aching back. That was what getting old did to you, he supposed.

As a consequence, he hid away in the butler’s pantry most of the morning, resting his protesting spine against the straight back of his chair while he informed Andy and the hall boys of their daily chores, then pored over inventory lists until the numbers and letters swam before his eyes. He emerged to serve luncheon, and when teatime arrived, he snatched a couple of biscuits and a cuppa from the kitchens. Mrs Patmore muttered something about the prince finally leaving his ivory tower, but Thomas pretended not to hear. Now that he was butler, he was held to a different standard. It would be undignified for him to trade barbs with the head cook.

He settled in again, this time to examine the bottles of wine that would be served with dinner. He looked up from his work to find a pair of small, dark eyes staring back at him over the tabletop.

“Hullo, Mr Barrow,” said Johnny Bates.

Thomas’ answering smile was genuine. Despite what most people assumed, he was rather fond of children. It helped that the boy took more after his mother in temperament, if not looks. “Hullo, Johnny. How was school?”

“Mr Molesley called me up to the board. I did everything right, no mistakes. Might I have a sweet, please?” Johnny held out a small hand with dirt trapped under the fingernails.

He’d been having trouble with his arithmetic as of late. His parents’ solution was to go over his multiplication tables with him before bed. Thomas went for the more straightforward approach of bribery. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a caramel chew, quietly amused by the undisguised delight in Johnny’s face as he crammed it at once into his mouth. Had Thomas been born different—had that bloody “treatment” done its job—he would have enjoyed being a father. There was something terribly tempting about pouring all the love he had into a person, someone bound to him forever in a way anyone would understand.

Thomas got to his feet. “Let’s go find your mum and dad, aye?”

Bates was upstairs handling a minor emergency involving Lord Grantham’s dinner jacket, but they found Anna in the servants’ hall chatting with Mrs Hughes. It was the housekeeper’s half-day, and she was wearing her everyday clothes, a bouquet of freshly-cut flowers in her hand.

“Are you visiting Mr Carson?” Thomas asked.

“I am. It seems a lovely day for it. I was just asking Anna if she would care to join me, but she can’t spare the time.”

“Lady Mary’s new dress needs hemming in time for her trip to London tomorrow. Besides,” said Anna, “I have to keep _this_ one out of trouble.” She reached over and tousled her son’s hair, causing Johnny to pull a face. He had just reached the age when a mother’s affection, especially in public, was the worst sort of torture.

“I could come with you, if you like,” Thomas said.

The women looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted another head, which was hardly fair. He and Mr Carson had never been the best of friends, but they’d gotten on well enough once the old goat had handed over the reins to Thomas, and realized the Abbey wouldn’t crumble into ruin without him. On one of his visits, Carson had—after glancing over the papers on Thomas’ desk and inspecting the wine cellar—told him, “You’ve done a fine job,” then stiffly patted him on the shoulder. He might as well have hugged Thomas and called him the son he’d never had for how shocked the younger man was. A month later, Carson dropped like a stone in the middle of his morning gardening. Dr Clarkson said after the fact that he’d probably died within minutes. Thomas was glad of it. He’d seen plenty of lingering, painful deaths, and he wouldn’t wish one on his worst enemy.

“Won’t you be missed?” asked Mrs Hughes. “It’s not your free afternoon, after all.”

Thomas couldn’t be certain if she was trying to put him off, or if it was simply his paranoia talking. “I’m not needed until an hour before dinner. We should be back in plenty of time. That is, if you’d appreciate the company.”

Mrs Hughes’s expression was warm yet no-nonsense, reminding Thomas of a rainy evening in which he’d dripped water onto her parlor’s floorboards and blubbered about his ill-fated love for Jimmy Kent. Mr Carson’s death hadn’t broken her; she was much too stalwart for that. But losing the man she loved had changed her irrevocably. Thomas understood that well enough.

Flowers gripped tight in her hands, she said solemnly, “I certainly would, Mr Barrow.”

Although the sky was cheerful, robin’s egg blue, a chill wind whipped clean through their coats as soon as they stepped outside, a warning that winter wasn’t quite finished yet. In the bitter cold, the kink in Thomas’ spine was gradually replaced by a familiar ache in his wounded hand, which he tried in vain to warm in his pocket.

The headstone had been paid for by the Crawleys. Not even a year old, it wasn’t subject to the crumbling or wear of the older markers. The old man would’ve been pleased to see his life laid out so neatly and plainly on a slab of granite: _Charles Ernest Carson (1856 - 1932), Beloved Husband_. Still, Thomas suspected that Mr Carson would’ve preferred _butler_ to _husband_ , as far as descriptors went.

Mrs Hughes knelt and placed the flowers at the base of the plaque. She rested a hand along the top, gentle as if it were pressed to a cheek, murmuring words Thomas couldn’t quite catch. She didn’t cry. Thomas hadn’t seen her cry since the funeral; he supposed she waited until she was home for those sorts of displays of emotion. She was the perfect servant in that way. When she rose, several long minutes later, Thomas took her place, because it seemed the thing to do. He stood rather than get on his knees—ground-in dirt was a bugger to clean from livery. He bowed his head like he was praying.

He wasn’t praying. Instead he thought of how, on days when Carson’s tremors had been especially bad, Mrs Hughes would stay at the cottage and care for him. And how, a lifetime ago when Thomas had been beaten and bed-ridden, Jimmy had visited his room every day to bring him food, to read him the paper, to help him hobble up and down the hall keeping restlessness at bay. At first, it was nothing more than obligation. But one evening, Jimmy had bounded in without knocking. Grinning and bright-eyed, he’d sat at the end of Thomas’ bed, so close Thomas could’ve reached out and touched his arm. _You’ll never believe what that ninny Alfred did while we were serving dinner_ , he’d said. Warmth suffused Thomas’ bruised chest at the realization that Jimmy had been absolutely dying to tell him this story, had scurried up there first chance he could. That Jimmy _enjoyed_ his company.

Who would look after Thomas now, if he fell ill or the like? Bloody nobody, that’s who. A hall boy would deliver a tray twice a day, until someone commented on the funny smell coming from the men’s quarters, and then he’d be buried in a plot arranged for by the family. There’d be no _beloved_ anythingetched on his stone, just _Thomas Barrow, Butler_.

He turned away, and they began the journey back to the Abbey.

It had been a mistake to leave his work. He’d learned years ago that the key to being content with his lot lay in keeping busy, not giving himself time to think too deeply about things. He’d been down this road before, with the fantasies he used to entertain back when Jimmy still worked at Downton. Not the ones that sent delicious shivers through him as he lay alone at night in bed, those had been inevitable and mostly harmless. No, the other ones.

The ones in which Jimmy fell in love with a girl from the village—someone bold and witty and everything he deserved. They would marry and produce an impish, blond-haired brood. Every Sunday, Uncle Thomas would pop by their cottage for dinner. Afterwards, he’d tell ghost stories to the children and play games with them until their mother shooed them off to bed. Jimmy would pick out a tune on the piano while Thomas sat by the fire reading the paper, the sounds of Jimmy’s wife washing up in the other room mingling with the music. And when an elderly Thomas lay on his deathbed, Jimmy would hold his hand and tell him he couldn’t have asked for a dearer friend.

But then, in reality, Jimmy left. Those ridiculous daydreams shattered beyond repair, and Thomas cursed himself for daring to believe they might actually come true. He’d always been a stopover on Jimmy’s way to better things, that much was obvious.

It was wiser to deal in the here and now. Thomas was respected and good—no, _brilliant_ —at his job. That was enough. It had to be.

The problem was that once Jimmy set up shop in Thomas’ head, he was not so easily banished. Little things kept turning his thoughts to perfectly-curled golden hair and bright, mischievous eyes. Dinner didn’t help matters. Lady Rose would be visiting from America the following week, along with her husband, children, and—in typical Lady Rose fashion—a last-minute, scandalous guest, this time a female jazz singer. The topic was all the Crawleys could talk about during their meal.

“It’s a shame that footman James is no longer in your employ, Robert,” said the Dowager as she selected a roasted chicken from the tray Thomas held in front of her. “He struck me as the theatrical sort. I daresay he and this spirited young woman could have treated us all to a duet.”

The family had a good chuckle over her quip, while Thomas focused on breathing evenly through his nose and not showing how very much that had hurt.

Little surprise he dreamed of Jimmy that night. One moment he was curled up under his threadbare quilt, debating whether a warmer blanket was worth the walk to the linen cupboard, the next he was sitting in the servants’ hall, only the place was empty and very quiet, and he was wearing his old valet’s uniform. He didn’t hear the bell, precisely, but he knew someone was at the front door, just as he knew there was no one else to answer it. Standing up from his chair, he felt lighter than he had in years, almost as if those years had never happened at all. One step, and he was on the staircase leading upstairs, the grey gone from his temples. Another, and he was in the front hall, his wrists pale and free of scars. The door swung open. Jimmy stood on the stoop, cloth cap in hand, a bashful smile playing at his lips.

Total peace swept through Thomas. Of course it was Jimmy, of course it was. It could never have been anyone else.


	4. Yorkshire, 1920

The following morning arrived ordinarily enough, until Thomas stepped out into the hall and saw Mr Carson heading towards the water closet. Immediately, Thomas slammed his door shut, bracing himself against it. A fool might’ve believed what he saw was a ghost, but Thomas was no fool. If ghosts were real, he reckoned he’d have been up to his neck in them during the war. Besides, Mr Carson hadn’t been translucent or floating or wrapped in chains; he’d been about to take his morning bath, a towel on his arm and slippers on his feet. Surely a ghost would be more interesting than _that_.

Only two options were possible—Thomas had gone mad, or he was still dreaming. And he fancied himself too clever to lose his mind.

He opened the wardrobe, and a row of valet’s suits greeted him. The calendar he kept on his desk informed him that the date was the tenth of May, 1920. Quite boring for a dream, really—no handsome, half-dressed men or dancing pink elephants to be found anywhere. He shrugged and got on with his day.

It was no great hardship to be a valet again; truthfully, he rather missed those days. There was something to be said for the freedom, the privileges, the lack of Bates, and—and Jimmy.

Where _was_ Jimmy?

Thomas got his answer when he wandered into the servants’ hall shortly before luncheon to find a crowd gathered around a golden god in a working class suit. For years, he’d quietly loved the memory of Jimmy Kent, unaware of how it had faded in his mind’s eye like a photograph left out in the sun. Being in the man’s flesh-and-blood presence after so long stole the breath from his lungs.

This was no dream. Jimmy was truly there in front of him. Which meant the year truly was 1920. Which meant… Thomas had travelled through time, mad as that was. Fate, usually so determined to knock him into the dirt, had given him a second chance. He didn’t intend to waste it. He would earn Jimmy’s friendship and not sully it with demands for something more. There would be no awkwardness between them, no year of unpleasantness. When Jimmy came to him asking advice regarding Lady Anstruther, Thomas would warn him off. With no reason to think his warnings the product of a pathetic lavender’s jealousy, he would take him at his word. The old bat would never show her face at Downton, and Jimmy would never have to leave.

“Who’s this?” Thomas asked, trying and failing not to look like Christmas had come early.

“Jimmy Kent, at your service.” God, how he’d missed the cheek of him. A king or a beggar, he’d speak to them just the same.

“I’m Mr Barrow, His Lordship’s valet.” _And I’ll move Heaven and Earth not to say goodbye to you again._

In some ways, especially early on, things were easier this time around. O’Brien’s siren song no longer held nearly as much sway, now that Thomas was intimately aware of the serpent’s sting lying in wait beneath the flower. Not that he let on, of course—much better for her to believe he was under her thumb for as long as possible. With any luck, she’d have buggered off to India by the time she realized what had happened.

As for his goal of befriending Jimmy Kent, Thomas had years of practice in that particular area. It hurt to be so close to him yet unable to smooth the hair from his brow or take his hand or tell him how dearly he was loved. But whenever that ache overwhelmed him, he reminded himself of the anger and panic radiating off Jimmy that unfortunate night, of the solemn words _I can never give you what you want_. He knew what the future held if he didn’t keep his emotions in check. So, his head spinning with unpleasant memories, he bit down hard on his cheek, and took a deep breath, and followed his rules to the letter.

Chief among these rules was to never touch Jimmy. There were certain gestures—a friendly pat on the back, say, or a steadying hand—that wouldn’t have been considered untoward in the slightest, but even those he avoided. The more lurid bits of his imagination had plenty of fuel where Jimmy was concerned without him going about physically laying hands on the man.

He couldn’t have anticipated, however, that Jimmy would develop a habit of touching _him_. The first time he dismissed it as an accidental brush in the hallway, but each one that followed was more plainly deliberate than the last. Thomas was bewildered by this change to the script—as near as he could recall, Jimmy had never touched him intentionally, not before the sleep kiss and certainly not after. Other familiarities he didn’t remember popped up here and there in the midst of Thomas’ monotonous, day-in-day-out rhythm of a life in service. Jimmy might ask for one-on-one instruction concerning some chore he’d know how to do well enough the first time around, or appreciatively eye Thomas in his day suit before he left to run an errand in Ripon, or wordlessly offer him the plate of toast at breakfast before the seat of his trousers had even touched his chair.

Thomas couldn’t allow himself to revel in the attention, not when he didn’t know the _why_. And certainly not when the Voice began to tear its ugly head.

It happened first one evening while he and Jimmy loitered in the courtyard during the hour or so between upstairs dinner and the one for the servants. Thomas was smoking, and Jimmy asked to borrow a fag. He was down to his last one but, unable to refuse Jimmy anything, he passed it over. And then—Jimmy _caressed_ his hand, bold as anything. In a panic, he dropped the cigarette. He resisted the urge to run back inside, instead breathing carefully through his nose until he’d regained his composure.

“Oh dear,” Jimmy said, his eyes sliding from the cobblestones to rest in the vicinity of Thomas’ lips, curled as they were around a smouldering, half-finished fag, “however will I keep me mouth occupied now?”

Thomas nearly set himself on fire; his jaw went slack, embers falling dangerously close to his starched collar. He managed to snatch away the cigarette and stamp it out beneath his heel just in time. He’d forgotten what breathing was, how to do it. Heat rushed to his cheeks.

“I suppose chatting with you will have to do,” said Jimmy, grinning. He leaned back against the brick wall, heedless of the telling-off he’d get from Carson later for mussing his uniform. Hands in pockets, he tilted his head up to study stars glinting into and out of existence as wooly clouds drifted across the sky.

He was the brightest, most beautiful thing shining through the murky greyness of that Yorkshire night. It almost hurt to look directly at him.

And that was when the Voice emerged from some primordial recess of Thomas’ mind, brushed the dust from its shoulders, and whispered in his ear, _Kiss him. Go on, he wants you. He’s been so bloody obvious about it. Kiss him now. You’re alone, in the dark. No one else will see._

But it was just a shadow of O’Brien, flattering him with honeyed lies, goading him into his own destruction. He did not entertain the notion of pressing his lips to Jimmy’s up against the bricks. He certainly did not entertain the notion of Jimmy’s lips moving eagerly, sweetly beneath his own. Showing weakness be damned, he beat a hasty retreat back to the light and noise of the kitchen, back to sanity, tossing a flimsy excuse behind him. A voice drifted to him from beyond the safety of the threshold, so small and soft it pricked needle-thin at his heart, “We’ll talk later, won’t we, Mr Barrow? I have something I need to tell you.”

For days after, those words haunted his dreams. And for days after, the Voice made steady inroads in his defenses, chiming in with unhelpful suggestions whenever he and Jimmy were even remotely alone together. He began to worry that it may be only a matter of time before he surrendered to this mad, impossible idea the Voice was proposing—that this Jimmy was somehow different from the one he’d known before.

But a particularly blessed afternoon his salvation came, and oddly enough it came in the form of Alfred Nugent.

Thomas was no wizard at cards. He didn’t have to be, what with the faces Jimmy and Alfred were pulling as they peered down at their hands. In addition, Lady Luck had kept him company for the better part of an hour, so by the time Daisy shooed them away to set the table for tea, he’d well and truly cleaned them both out.

Jimmy grumbled, sipping moodily from his steaming cup as he stood beside the piano, out of range of Daisy’s and Ivy’s flurry of culinary motion. Even penniless, even pouting like a child, Thomas still ached with love for him.

“Don’t be a poor sport, Jimmy,” Alfred said, leaning in close and resting his hand on his shoulder. “Bad luck happens to the best of us.” He patted him once, twice before stepping away.

And why shouldn’t he touch Jimmy? Bitterly, Thomas watched the two of them from a distance. “Normal” blokes were allowed these moments of affection without jeering or disgust or the threat of prison bearing down on their heads. Yet every time, every _bloody_ time, Thomas tried to be friendly towards another man—friendly and nothing more—the spectre of his proclivities loomed large over the most harmless of interactions. Somehow, the fellow always, _always_ found out about him, so it could never be that simple, that natural, that easy—

Except… except Jimmy didn’t know Thomas was of that sort, not this time. He had no reason to suspect such a thing, considering Thomas had the good sense to refrain from pawing at him or dropping obvious hints. Jimmy’s perspective was that Thomas, an older man with a wealth of experience in service, had befriended him, had taken him under his wing, and that was all.

Epiphany shot through Thomas like a bolt of lightning. He sat down abruptly, his teacup rattling in its saucer. There _was_ a reason Jimmy was so persistent, so physical, so cheeky in a way he had not been with Thomas in that other version of their time together. It was because they were friends. _Uncomplicated_ friends, something they’d had no hope of being back when Jimmy had known of his romantic feelings. Now Jimmy didn’t worry, even unconsciously, that Thomas might misinterpret an innocent compliment or be overcome with desire from a simple touch of the hand. Jimmy was freer this way. They were both free.

As Thomas dipped a shortbread biscuit into his milky tea and settled in to read the paper, he noticed Anna beside him, her eyes skittering across the columns of printed type. He couldn’t imagine what she was searching for; when news of her imprisoned husband’s release came, it would be by letter. She looked well enough from afar, but up close the cracks began to show—fine lines carved into the corners of her eyes and mouth, a blotchy complexion that spoke of a night spent crying rather than sleeping. It was easy not to feel sorry for Bates, a little harder not to feel sorry for Anna.

It helped to remember that soon enough the prodigal valet would return. Soon enough the two of them would settle into their cottage, have a bouncing baby boy, and be disgustingly happy forevermore. Even if Thomas did absolutely everything right, he could never have _that_.

“Any good news, Mr Barrow?” Anna asked. “I could use some good news.”

“I think so,” Thomas replied. The Voice seemed smaller now, more manageable. He could do this, he really could. For the rest of their lives, Jimmy need never know that Thomas preferred the company of men, and the company of Jimmy most of all.

And if that prospect was not entirely cheerful, if a kernel of sadness took root in the pit of his stomach, if a vision of he and Jimmy cozied up in a cottage of their own swam in front of his eyes before sinking back into nothingness—well. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that having some of Jimmy Kent was so much better than having none at all.

\---

The day Thomas was fated to ruin everything was marked in red on his calendar, as if there was any chance of him forgetting, in this life or any other. The night before, he stared bleary-eyed at the neat, little “X” until he fell asleep at his desk. When he awoke to a watery, grey dawn, neck stiff and nose squashed, the commanding figures of Orpheus and Heracles and Perseus from his dreams lingered as afterimages in the shadowy corners of the room. A hall boy knocked on the door, strident bark announcing the time, and the ghosts vanished like smoke.

In the midst of the London season of 1912—a time which, for Thomas, was a heady blur of heated, clandestine meetings and false promises scrawled on notes slipped into coat pockets—Phillip lent him a book on Greek mythology. He’d been amused by his pet footman having an interest in the Greeks that went beyond the carnal, charmed by the notion of a working-class chap who would never set foot in a university still yearning to read everything, _know_ everything.

At the time, the heroes of the stories written in those pages had frustrated Thomas. They endured grueling trials, yet bungled the simplest, most straightforward directions—don’t lose the string, muck out that stable, don’t look behind you. Now, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled in the direction of the wardrobe, he felt a strange kinship to them. How he’d gotten to this point was nothing short of extraordinary, but his goal could not be clearer—do not kiss Jimmy. Do not under any circumstances kiss Jimmy. And yet… and yet…

And yet nothing. He was not some tragic fool swanning about in a toga and sandals, swinging around a bloody great sword. He would succeed where demigods had failed.

He didn’t try to avoid Jimmy during the daylight hours. O’Brien would have found that suspicious. Probably Jimmy would have found it suspicious too, cornering Thomas in the empty boot room or hunting him down in the courtyard, demanding to know what he’d done wrong. So Thomas behaved normally. Even when, in a moment of forgetfulness, he lingered too long in the servants’ hall after work and found himself drawn into a familiar conversation with a certain blond footman, he refused to panic. One significant event didn’t invariably lead to another. He was in control here, and he’d made his decision about how the night was going to end the moment he’d realized he’d stepped back in time.

He was ashamed to tell Jimmy he loved him all over again, but the prickling, uneasy feeling lasted only a moment. It was, he reasoned, a small risk to prevent a greater calamity farther down the road. If he said it then, while it was _safe_ , while Jimmy could smile and laugh off his confession, he could bear whatever came after.

Anything, it seemed, aside from Jimmy’s kindness. And Jimmy _was_ kind. He asked about Thomas’ family—not just that, his brow crinkled ever-so-slightly as if it was more than a casual question, as if the answer actually mattered to him. The old Jimmy had never taken that sort of interest in Thomas. Truthfully, nobody had, not for a number of years—everyone at Downton, both upstairs and down, seemed content to believe he’d manifested fully-grown (or near enough) on their doorstep, a dark, creeping, noxious cloud of cigarette smoke made flesh. Even O’Brien, who back in the early days had wheedled his past from him in bits and pieces over cigarettes and cups of lukewarm tea, had done so in the sly, exacting way she acquired information from anyone. But Jimmy… Jimmy cared, genuinely. And that nearly broke Thomas. Words tripped against his tongue, painful memories he’d tried his damnedest to move beyond—his father’s heavy hand—the gentle, freckle-faced boy he used to meet in secret behind the tumbledown shed—rocks pelting his back as the two of them ran pell-mell, trousers loose around their waists, from the jeers and threats of the other neighbourhood lads—his stony dismissal to be a hall boy so he couldn’t bring any more shame to the family. For one wavering second, aloof, secretive Mr Barrow seriously considered laying his soul bare right there in the servants’ hall.

But he didn’t, because he couldn’t. Because Jimmy would be disgusted, and O’Brien would cackle with glee, and all his hard work would be for naught. He thought again of those Greek heroes, of how _stupid_ they were, until he was calm.

When he finally, finally set foot in the sanctuary of his bedroom, he could’ve wept with relief. His knees wobbled even as his ever-steady hands removed his jacket and tie with practised ease. Off came the shoes and the shirt and the socks as well. The hard part was over. Jimmy was asleep, and Thomas would not leave his room until dawn; nothing short of the bloody curtains catching fire would get him out that door. He collapsed onto the bed, springs squeaking beneath him, so bone-tired the thought of the ironing his trousers would require in the morning didn’t even cross his mind. And then—a knocking came from the hall.

He knew somehow right away. Acid churned in his gut, a tinny ringing echoed in his ears. No small part of him wanted to shut his eyes and pretend it was all some awful dream. But blighty or no, Thomas wasn’t a coward. As he eased open the door, details sprang up before his eyes as if from under the lens of a microscope—a loose thread dangling from the collar of Jimmy’s robe, the low-light glint of the glass bottleneck gripped in his fist, the slightly uneven curve to his smile, mocking Thomas for thinking he could ever win.

“Hullo, Mr Barrow. I couldn’t sleep. Fancy a game of cards?” He spoke precisely and a touch too enthusiastically, like an actor reciting lines for a play. But then that’s exactly what this was, what this had always been—a cosmic Punch and Judy show wherein Thomas was the unlucky puppet getting beaten about the head with a stick.

Fate hadn’t given him a second chance. When had fate ever given him a first one? Everything Thomas had, he’d taken for himself. The trouble was, after a while he’d stopped hoping, stopped grasping for more, and that was simply too boring for God or the universe or whatever other malevolent force had taken an interest in him. So he’d been transported back to a time when he was a young, ambitious valet who clung tight with both hands to any notion of love. All so he could learn that he couldn’t change anything, that he was forever doomed to fail. A joke. It was all a sodding joke.

He told Jimmy he was tired in the vain, distant hope that he would take the hint and go away. He didn’t, of course. Any minute now, Alfred would blunder up the stairs. The tableau of the two of them in a state of undress at the threshold of Thomas’ door was not quite the smoking gun a kiss would be, but it would rouse Alfred’s suspicions, certainly. Sooner or later, he’d go blabbing to O’Brien. Then the rest of it would come to pass—accusations, panic, anger, one lonely year of Jimmy glaring at him as if he were something Isis had spat up onto the carpet.

Inside his pocket, he flexed his wounded hand, a familiar twinge shooting up his arm. He remembered then that he’d been fated to die in the war. He’d known this nearly from the first moment he set foot in the trenches. Every time a dying soldier passed into his care—a boy clutching a bloody, gaping hole in his side to keep his intestines from spilling out, an officer choking out his last as mustard gas ate through his lungs, a gibbering man with his torso and half his face ravaged by an exploded artillery shell—he would think, _Is this how it’ll happen to me, when the time comes?_ He survived only because he did something totally against his nature, something destiny couldn’t predict, something painful beyond measure. Had that Jerry aimed a few centimetres higher, he could’ve lost a finger. Had the wound become infected, he could’ve lost the entire hand. But even in the immediate aftermath—crimson soaking into his uniform, the world fuzzy at the edges—he didn’t regret it, not a bit.

He could only hope he did not come to regret what he had to do now.

“Jimmy, _no_ ,” he said—snarled, more like. As loathsome as it was to smile blandly and fetch coffee for some upstairs guest who couldn’t bother to remember his name, it was ten times worse to turn his nose up at Jimmy—to treat him as if he were an inconvenience, a pest. He shuffled backwards into his bedroom; his good hand reached out for the doorknob.

He expected pouting. He expected rude words muttered under Jimmy’s breath. He did not expect Jimmy to look— _heartbroken_ was the only word for it. Which was ridiculous, he was only being dramatic. It was Jimmy’s way. For him, this incident would be forgotten by morning, Thomas was certain of it.

Still—as the door shut, as Thomas crawled into bed, as he slid almost instantly into a grey, dreamless sleep—his love’s face remained with him, captured in the fraction of a second when the door was half-closed, bisected neatly in two, shining and beautiful and ruined, like the ancient, crumbling sculpture of some tragic, Greek hero.

The next day, as the rows of bells on the wall clanged in an incessant chorus to herald breakfast’s end, Jimmy wandered into the servants’ hall. Any hope on Thomas’ part that he’d simply slept through his alarm evaporated in the face of the other man’s palpable misery. Jimmy struggled to maintain his servant’s blank at the best of times, and in the harsh light of morning, his mouth was pinched and thin, his shoulders slumped so he folded in on himself. Mr Carson glared pointedly at his unkempt hair and askew tie. He loudly cleared his throat, bushy eyebrows wobbling below his hairline, all signs he was on the verge of delivering a scathing dressing-down—

But Ivy spoke first. She swayed towards Jimmy, a stack of plates clutched in her red, chapped hands. “Is something wrong, Jim… ah, James? You look—”

“I don’t feel that way about you, Ivy,” Jimmy said, in a carrying voice. Ivy’s rosebud mouth popped open into a perfect “O.” Scattered conversations stopped dead, everyone’s heads swiveling as one to stare. Mr Carson’s face darkened to a beet red. Alfred, Thomas noticed out of the corner of his eye, appeared to be torn between gawking like the rest and smirking into his teacup.

“There’ll never be anything between us. I’m sorry,” he continued. He didn’t sound sorry. He wasn’t even looking at Ivy—his eyes were fixed on Thomas, dark and vaguely desperate. “You should try it on with Alfred. He’s taller than ought to be legal, but he’s a decent enough chap, really.”

Ivy burst into tears and fled from the room. A flurry of motion and noise rushed in to fill the gap. From the kitchen, Mrs Patmore squawked in surprise—no doubt having caught sight of a hysterical Ivy—and hollered for Daisy, who reluctantly followed. Alfred strode over to Jimmy. He looked only angry now, muttering something Thomas didn’t catch. Jimmy shrugged in response. Alfred opened his mouth again, as if to further argue the point, but thought better of it and stormed out into the corridor. With a squeal of chairs, Mr Carson rose to his feet.

“James, my pantry. Now.”

Jimmy didn’t appear to be frightened. He didn’t appear to be much of anything.

A few whispers followed their departure, but within minutes, everyone had cleared off to attend to their duties. The early morning rush waited for no servant. Thomas suggested to Bates that he be the one to dress His Lordship that morning. “After all, you were gone for _such_ a long time, Mr Bates.” He put on his coldest and slitheriest smile. “We need to ease you back into things.”

Bates eyed him suspiciously, but he could find nothing wrong with the idea, so he turned and disappeared up the stairs.

Thomas, meanwhile, slunk off to the butler’s pantry. A couple of hall boys were already lingering unsubtly beside the door, from which muffled outrage filtered out into the hall. He scowled them away, then stuck his own ear up against the wood. Carson blustered for quite a while, and he threatened to sack Jimmy twice, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t actually going to go through with it. Inaudibly, Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.

“Mr Barrow,” said a voice close by.

He bolted upright, hastily arranging his expression into cool indifference. Mrs Hughes stood beside him. Although her face did not move a centimetre, there was the distinct impression that she was giving him a stern look. She asked him, “Don’t you have work to be getting on with?”

Tipping his head in a barely perceptible nod, he shuffled away. Later, he would defend Jimmy to Mr Carson and argue for a reduced sentence, but for now, he’d done what he could. The cold, hard truth of it was that he couldn’t protect Jimmy from everything.

\---

“What did you think of the flick?”

On a winter’s night, Thomas and Jimmy walked the long, loping path through the woods back to the Abbey. Their half-days had once again miraculously lined up, and Jimmy had invited Thomas to take the bus with him into Ripon to take in a film. He’d done so in the middle of the servants’ hall, drawing a few suspicious glances from the senior staff. Knowing what he knew, it was obvious to Thomas that Jimmy’s offers of a jaunt to the pub or a stroll about the grounds or a trip to the dance hall in York were merely innocent gestures of friendship. But he also knew how it must look to those in the house aware of his proclivities. He _really_ needed to have a talk with Jimmy about discretion, but what could he say? _Don’t think I’m a screaming lavender or anything, but if you keep stepping out with me, people are going to suspect I’m taking you to bed._ It simply wasn’t done.

“I didn’t like it,” Thomas answered. He pulled his coat tighter around himself.

“Really?” Jimmy’s eyes shined up at him in the blue-black darkness. “I thought it were dead exciting when Marguerite Namara slashed that dagger across Valentino’s face.” He mimed the action for emphasis, features screwed up in concentration, and Thomas barely managed to stifle a smile.

“He should have left her alone. She made it perfectly clear she didn’t love him anymore.”

“But he’s _supposed_ to do nasty things,” said Jimmy. “He’s the villain.”

Thomas sighed. For the first time in months, he felt as if he were old again. His gloved hand ached inside his pocket. Quietly, he said, “Yes. He is, isn’t he?”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. In the branches above them, an owl hooted low in its throat. Jimmy’s head bobbed once, decisively. “Right, then. Next time, we’ll see something lighter. Like a comedy.” His elbow bumped against Thomas’ arm—an accident. “Or a romance.”

When they broke through the trees, the neatly manicured lawn shone silver with frost, the sky a shifting, velvety blanket. Out of nowhere, Jimmy let out a wild _whoop_ and threw his arms up, outstretched. He turned to Thomas, grinning. “Such a lovely night. Look at that moon. It’s as bright as a lightbulb.” In reply Thomas arched a dubious eyebrow, which caused Jimmy to break into laughter.

For weeks after the incident-that-wasn’t, Jimmy had skulked about like a gloomy shadow. He was never _cold_ towards Thomas exactly, but whenever they were alone together for too long, his face would become drawn and pale. With hardly a word, he would drift off to either his bedroom or the kitchen, depending on the time of day. Thomas began to worry that he truly had spoiled things between them somehow. And then all at once, it was as if a fire had been lit under Jimmy’s backside. He was full of energy, much of it directed at Thomas. He told him bawdy jokes, invited him on outings, played cards with him well after everyone else had gone to bed. Yet slowly, so slowly it was like a clock winding down, he turned back to melancholy. The wheel of his temperament spun ceaselessly—a season of bloody-minded determination, followed by a season of sadness, and so on. Thomas knew something weighed heavy on his mind, but for all their easy companionship, Jimmy would not confide in him about it, and Thomas would not ask.

“Look, there’s a seat.” Jimmy pointed to a green bench nestled away from the elements beneath the branches of an ancient tree. “Let’s sit down. We’re in no hurry.” A bracing wind whipped the men’s coats about their knees. Shivering, Thomas said, “Speak for yourself. It’s bloody freezing out here. I want to go in and have meself a nice, warm cuppa.”

Disappointment, or something similar, flashed across Jimmy’s face. With his clockmaker’s eye, Thomas could see the gears moving beneath the other man’s skin, delicate hands ticking on towards a particularly black mood. Thomas could sodding travel through time, yet he was utterly powerless to help the man he loved. He wanted to grab Jimmy by the shoulders and demand to know why he was being so stubborn. Why wouldn’t he share his burden with him? Why couldn’t they fix it, or shoulder it, or whatever _together?_

But Thomas had known since the beginning that he couldn’t hope to have _all_ of Jimmy. He had to make the best of what Jimmy was willing to give.

Stepping into the yellow warmth of the servants’ entrance, they immediately shucked off their coats and hats, shaking the chill from their bones. Having only just caught the last bus from Ripon back to Downton, they’d gotten in very late. Even Mr Carson appeared to have gone up to bed. An intimate hush had fallen on the corridor, broken only by their muted footsteps.

“So you didn’t fancy the film—” Jimmy whispered so that Thomas had to lean in to catch all the words. “—but what did you make of that Valentino chappie?” Thomas frowned. Sometimes Jimmy would say things, never anything beyond an idle comment, but still _things_ that implied he was aware of Thomas’ interest in men. Which was quite impossible. If someone in the house had blabbed to Jimmy, surely he would have been revolted. At the very least, he wouldn’t be going out _alone_ with him at night.

“That Marguerite Namara is more my type,” Thomas said lightly, when he really wanted to say, _My type is more silly, blond footmen with floppy hair and absolutely no common sense._

Staring down at the tips of his shoes, Jimmy said, “Ah. Right. Me—me too.” Thomas patted his pockets for his lighter and a packet of cigarettes. Reflexively, Jimmy held out a hand to wordlessly request a fag. “I suppose I ought to enjoy Valentino flicks while I still can, before—” His jaw clacked shut abruptly, his face draining itself of colour.

“Before what?”

Jimmy’s smile was strained at the corners. “Before he, you know, retires from acting.”

Thomas had quit searching for the items. His attention was focused entirely on Jimmy. “Why would he do that? Surely he’s still a young man.”

“Well, yes but… but who can tell what those Hollywood types will do next?” He scurried off to the stairs like a scalded cat. “Goodnight, Mr Barrow.” Thomas watched him disappear up the steps, gold hair glinting briefly in the illumination from a wall sconce. “Goodnight,” he muttered, long after Jimmy was gone.

Alone in the half-light, a scene flared to life from the murky depths of Thomas’ memory. On a stiflingly hot August afternoon in 1926, Thomas had been passing by the servants’ hall when the sudden sobs of two maids drowned out the ever-present drone from the wireless. _He was so young!_ wailed one. The other nodded in agreement, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. He turned his steely butler’s glare on them until they tearfully shuffled away to their chores, even as privately he wondered—with only a touch of pain—if Jimmy, wherever he was, had heard the news that his favourite film star had been killed by a cruel twist of fate.

But _this_ Jimmy, the Jimmy Kent of 1920, couldn’t possibly know what was to happen. Unless… unless Thomas’ miracle was not his alone. _No_ , he told himself, quite firmly. _If Jimmy had any memory of the unpleasantness between us, he’d never risk me falling in love with him again._ Yet at the same time, the tentative beginnings of a scheme were quietly taking shape in some secret, traitorous corner of his mind.

A fortnight later, Thomas received a package—rectangular, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine—in the morning post. Normally, it was his habit to set any mail or parcels off to the side of his breakfast plate until he could open them in private in his room. This time he tore off the paper nearly as soon as it entered his hands, making a bit of a show of it. With no small amount of satisfaction, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy taking notice. The footman gave a dismissive affirmative to Alfred’s request to borrow his tin of shoe polish, gaze fixed to Thomas’ long fingers unraveling the knot and pulling off the length of twine. “What’s that you’ve got there, Mr Barrow?” he asked.

“A book,” Thomas replied blithely. He lifted up his ace in the hole, still hiding the cover from sight beneath his hands, the last of its wrappings falling onto the wooden surface of the table. “I couldn’t find it at the bookshop in Ripon, so I had to order it by mail from London.”

“You know, Mr Barrow,” said Carson from his seat at the head of the table, bushy eyebrows glowering as he cut a sausage into pieces, “that you may borrow any book you wish from His Lordship’s library, provided you make note of it in the ledger.”

“I do, Mr Carson. But I wanted a copy of my own. Besides, I’m almost certain His Lordship doesn’t have this particular novel in his collection.” Jimmy unsubtly craned his neck in an attempt to get a peek at the title. Thomas swallowed down a triumphant grin.

“Is it very new, then?” asked Alfred.

“Not _new_ , no. Only it’s a bit… fantastical.” He flipped the book around so Alfred and Jimmy could see the front. Engraved in red was the image of a mysterious Sphinx, seated in profile, chin jutting proudly, feathered wings aloft—and surrounding it, also engraved in red, were the words: _The Time Machine H. G. Wells_.

In that instant, Jimmy began to choke on a mouthful of scrambled eggs and toast.

What followed was a great deal of commotion, and it was hours later when Thomas finally found Jimmy alone, ashen-faced and puffing pensively at a fag in the courtyard. For once, Thomas had no intention of hanging about to chat—he glided forward until his lips nearly brushed Jimmy’s ear. “I’m coming to your room this evening. We need to talk.” Jimmy jerked as if he’d grabbed hold of a live wire, his mouth popping open to reply—but before he could say a word, Thomas promptly turned on his heel, his polished shoes slapping against the cobblestone as he walked back inside.

\---

Night had long since fallen, and Jimmy paced up and down the length of his bedroom, gnawing the skin off his bottom lip. If Thomas had told him they were to meet in the under-butler’s quarters, he could’ve just hid away in his own room, pretended later that he’d forgotten. But no, Thomas was coming to _him_. Clever bugger. Clever, awful, handsome bugger.

Thomas knew. Thomas _knew_. But how? Perhaps Jimmy had let things slip here and there—the Valentino incident sprang to mind—still, it wasn’t the first thing a person would assume, now was it? That Jimmy knew the future because he’d already been there? Thomas had always been the sort of bloke to laugh off notions of the supernatural, or other such flights of fancy. He wouldn’t believe in time travel without good reason. And the only possible _rational_ reason to believe in such a thing would be if— _Oh, God._ Jimmy lowered himself heavily onto the edge of the bed. That would… that would explain a few things. Hope he’d never quite managed to extinguish kicked up his pulse, brought heat rushing to his cheeks. Perhaps Thomas had rejected his advances only because he’d believed things would go pear-shaped otherwise. Perhaps what Thomas felt for Jimmy still delved into realms more tender, and warmer, and more wonderful than friendship.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Thomas’ choice of reading material was a bizarre coincidence, and as soon as Jimmy made mention of ripping asunder the laws of time and space, Thomas would have him carted off to an asylum.

A polite one-two knock sounded against the door, a brief warning before Thomas let himself in. He was wearing his full uniform, his bearing so serious he might’ve been up before the Family—all while Jimmy sat cross-legged on the coverlet in pyjamas, feet bare, like a wayward child. After he’d shut the door behind him, Thomas stood before Jimmy, back ramrod straight even as the thumb of his good hand rubbed in a circle against the fingers—a nervous tell, very familiar to Jimmy, that he was holding himself back from indulging in a cigarette.

Thomas sighed. “Listen, this question might sound absolutely mad, but—”

“Did I travel through time from the year 1933? Yes, I did.” Better to lay all his cards on the table right away, Jimmy decided, shaking off the frisson of fear crawling down his spine. “Much like you, I’d imagine.”

Wide-eyed, Thomas nodded. “Yes. _Yes._ ” He sat down beside Jimmy, who obligingly rearranged his legs so they could sit side-by-side, their thighs pressed together atop the narrow mattress. “I went to sleep in 1933,” Thomas said, voice trembling with ill-concealed excitement, “and I—I dreamed the strangest dream, and when I woke, it were the summer of 1920.”

“It were the same for me,” said Jimmy. “Didn’t even feel real at first. Being a footman again, seeing Lady Sybil and Mr Matthew alive and breathing.”

Thomas’ eyes grew impossibly rounder. “ _God._ ” He reached out an unsteady hand as if to grasp Jimmy’s arm, then brought it up to his own face instead. “It really is you,” he said from behind his fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I mean, o’course it’s _you_ , you’ll always be _you_ …”

“No, I know what you mean.” Jimmy took Thomas’ palm away from his cheek, twined their digits together. Thomas flinched but didn’t pull away. “We were mates for years. We went through so much together in this house. It’s a relief to know those memories don’t only exist in me head, that I share them with someone else.” He smiled up at Thomas, who frowned in return.

“There are some things I’d prefer you’d forgotten,” he muttered darkly.

“Ah, Thomas—”

“So,” Thomas cut in, “what happened after you left Downton? Did you find another job in service?”

Jimmy shook his head. “You know what it’s like—will be like—everyone letting staff go, nobody taking new folk on. I worked odd jobs for a few years, then I moved down to London to try me luck there.” He took a steadying breath. This was the hard bit. But Jimmy clung to one last secret, and if there was to be anything between the two of them, Thomas had to know for certain what sort of a man Jimmy truly was. “Thomas, I’m married.”

Thomas’s hand slipped from Jimmy’s grip. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” One particular time when Jimmy was slacking off in the kitchen, he had watched Daisy painstakingly glue and set a milk jug that had broken into several pieces. She did such a good job a person could only see the cracks if they held the jug in a specific way up to the light. Thomas’ perfect, pleasant expression was like that—Jimmy was certain that if he simply tilted the other man’s chin in a certain direction, like magic, spiderweb-thin marks would appear winding down the bridge of his nose, around an eye, across his jaw. “You must miss her terribly.”

Jimmy stared at the hands bunching into fists against his thighs as if they belonged to a stranger. “She’s better off having never met me and no mistake.”

“Don’t say that, I’m sure she loves you very—”

“ _Thomas_. It weren’t that sort of marriage.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, after a moment. “Well, you did the honourable thing. Nobody can ask more from you than that.” At the time, it hadn’t felt a bit honourable to Jimmy to stand up before God and shackle himself to a woman he didn’t love and never would. Shame rose up within him in a dark wave. “Boy or girl?” Thomas asked quietly.

“Don’t know,” said Jimmy. “It hadn’t been born yet, before…” He gestured vaguely with an arm. Swallowing around the sudden, hard lump in his throat, he continued, “What about you? Did the Crawleys ever make you butler? If they didn’t, the more fool them.”

Thomas smiled—a true, sincere smile—at the compliment. “They did, actually.”

“Don’t tell me—Carson challenged you to a duel to the death for the position. At dawn, pistols drawn, last man standing gets to wipe His Lordship’s snotty nose.” Now Thomas chuckled, and the great weight upon Jimmy’s chest loosened its hold, just a little. “Well, he didn’t go into retirement easily, I’ll say that much.” Thomas sobered somewhat. “And he did die last spring—that is, in 1932.”

“Oh, I am sorry for it,” Jimmy said, realizing only after the words had left his mouth that they were true. “Even if I weren’t his precious Alfred and all.”

Thomas shrugged. “He married Mrs Hughes. They had a few good years together in a tidy, little cottage. That’s the best anyone can hope for, isn’t it?” Jimmy murmured a noise that may have been agreement. Then he asked, voice wavering at the edges, “Is there… is there someone special waiting for you back in 1933?” Lord help him, he couldn’t bring himself to _look_ at Thomas; he was speaking to the bloody wall.

“No.” Thomas didn’t sound sad, not really, only exhausted, only old. “No one like that.” Jimmy felt the other man shift his weight off the mattress. “It’s late. We can talk more tomorrow—” Instinctively, Jimmy’s hand leapt out and grasped him by the wrist, holding him in place, fingertips pressed tightly to a warm, reassuring pulse. “Do you still love me? Is that why you don’t have a lover?” he said, before he lost his nerve.

“How can—” Quiet fury seethed around every syllable Thomas spoke, but for all that Jimmy quailed before him, he would not let him go. “—how can you ask me that? After everything that happened between us?”

“Because I have to!” Too loud. They both winced, and Jimmy modulated his tone to a desperate whisper. “Please understand, Thomas, I _have_ to. I’ve made too many mistakes already. Tell me now, and I’ll never bring up the topic again, if that’s what you want.”

Terrible silence thickened the air, coiling about them for several long, drawn-out minutes. Any moment now, Thomas would wrench his arm free. He would storm out the door. Certainly he would hate Jimmy forever, which was probably what he deserved anyway. _At least I tried_ , Jimmy thought. _At least I fought for Thomas Barrow, in the end, instead of slinking away like a coward._ Then Thomas’ voice cut through the quiet, so wretched he may as well have been holding his own shuddering, blood-slick heart in the palm of his hand—and in that instant, Jimmy felt more keenly than ever that the man had a grip on _his_ heart as well. “I do love you, Jimmy—very much,” he said. “No matter what, my love always returns to you.”

“Thank Christ,” Jimmy breathed, exhaling a great gust of air, and he released Thomas’ wrist to cradle that achingly handsome face in both his hands, and _finally_ he pressed a kiss to those red lips.

Hesitantly, Thomas returned the gesture, his mouth moving with increasing surety to capture—gently—Jimmy’s lower lip between his own. Fizzing sparks burst to life inside of Jimmy, spreading from the chest outwards. He was fit to pop like a cork, or whizz-bang like a Christmas cracker, or some other silly thing. And this was only _kissing_ —rather chaste kissing, at that. What sort of sensations could he expect when he actually went to bed with the man? A small but very pleased noise escaped his throat at the notion.

They parted for air. Grey, clever eyes darted across Jimmy’s face for what felt like a long while, studying him. Whatever Thomas found must have been to his liking, because he suddenly _beamed_ , brilliant as the sun, more open, more joyful than Jimmy had ever seen him. Those toffs with their oil paintings and their diamond tiaras and their neatly manicured gardens didn’t know the first thing about _true_ beauty, Jimmy decided. _But I do. I’ll do whatever it takes, just so long as he keeps looking at me like that._ Then they came together again, and the capacity for thought temporarily abandoned him.

This embrace edged closer toward passion, mouths unfurling for one another like flower petals in bloom. A warm, heavy, undeniably masculine hand rested upon Jimmy’s shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist. Against the small of his back, Jimmy could feel the outline of Thomas’ leather glove through thin, cotton fabric, and that off all things drew a delicious shiver out of him. Words travelled back to him, unbidden, from a lifetime ago— _I’m on my way, Mr Barrow._ And they were, they really were. A better, brighter future, alight with possibility, shimmered before them, just within reach—

The door creaked open. A voice said, “Jimmy, I’m popping by to borrow—Oh my _God_.” Jimmy and Thomas sprang apart, but it was too late—much, much too late. Alfred had seen.

Under different circumstances, it might have been comical, the way Alfred gaped at them together on the bed, his eyes round as dinner plates. Thomas recovered first. “Alfred,” he said in the slow, deliberate manner of someone attempting to soothe a skittish animal, “now hold on a minute…”

Immediately Alfred turned and fled to his room, leaving Jimmy’s door open behind him.

Tension deflated, shock giving way to misery. A million wild, dreadful emotions swirled through Jimmy, but he experienced them distantly, as if from the other side of frosted glass. Thomas’ head dropped into his hands and remained there for the span of one, two sickening heartbeats. When he surfaced, he asked in a small, lost voice, not Barrow-like at all, “Why would he come in?” Jimmy sighed, air _whoosh_ ing from his lungs with the force of a punch to the gut. “I told him to. This morning, he wanted to borrow me shoe polish until he could go into Ripon for a new tin. I said he could come get it after dinner, in the evening. I—I’d forgotten.”

Thomas squared his shoulders, lurched to his feet. “Right. Right.” He made for the orange glow of the men’s corridor that lay beyond Jimmy’s doorway. “You stay here. I’ll talk to him.”

“No.” Jimmy stood up as well. He grabbed his dressing gown and threw it on. “ _You_ stay here. He and I are mates, sort of. He’ll listen to me.”

Thomas must have had truly no idea what to do, because he let Jimmy go without argument. Instead he eased himself down onto the desk chair, his rumpled uniform only making him look all the more like a worried child. A swell of protectiveness overwhelmed Jimmy’s panic. Not entirely, but enough. It had to be enough. He marched up to Alfred’s door and knocked. It swung open a hair too quickly, as if Alfred had been waiting close by. He took one glance at Jimmy and went to shut it again.

A hand came up to halt it in its path. “Hear me out, won’t you? Come on, be fair.”

Alfred stood there, the door half-closed, his face scrunched up unpleasantly. “In _private_ ,” Jimmy clarified. Reluctantly, Alfred stepped back and allowed Jimmy inside. He hastily retreated behind the barrier of the narrow bed, fingers twitching at his sides. _I’m not interested in kissing_ you _, you idiot,_ Jimmy nearly said, biting his tongue just in time.

“Don’t try to tell me he forced himself on you,” hissed Alfred. “I saw how you were touching him.”

“I weren’t going to,” Jimmy replied.

Alfred blinked. “You weren’t?”

“No.” A fine tremor ran all the way through Jimmy, but his voice was steady. That was the important bit—show no fear. “I kissed him, and he kissed me.”

“I knew there were something funny going on between the two of you. You were always going off together, always whispering to each other.” Because of his height, Alfred typically appeared to turn his nose up at Jimmy, but now he really _had_. “I knew it had to be _unnatural_ in some way.”

 _Yes, yes, you’re very clever,_ Jimmy thought, even with heart ticking upwards to a frantic metronome tempo, and palms dampening with sweat. “Listen, I think it would be best for everyone for you to forget what you saw tonight. If word of this gets back to You-Know-Who, it won’t be just me and Thom—Mr Barrow under scrutiny. And I reckon the gossip won’t be very kind to you either. Whereas if you decide _not_ to tell Mr Carson—or your witch of an aunt, for that matter—then this whole unfortunate business is gone by tomorrow morning.”

Alfred squinted suspiciously. “Do you promise never to do it again?”

“No,” said Jimmy. To claim otherwise would be a betrayal, would be like throwing Thomas out into the cold, empty hallway all over again.

“Then I have to tell. Mr Carson needs to know if things like… _that_ are happening in the house. But also, what you did was _wrong_ , Jimmy. And if you don’t understand that, then you need to be punished until you do.”

Jimmy gritted his teeth. “The way I see it, you owe me one.”

A disdainful bark of laughter was muffled behind Alfred’s hand. “How do you figure?”

“You asked me to put in a good word for you with Ivy, and I did, remember?”

“Ivy doesn’t even like me!”

“That’s hardly me fault though, now is it?”

Glowering, Alfred stepped forward, perhaps to order him to leave, so Jimmy blurted out, “You can have the first footman position.” Alfred froze in place. “I’ll say the responsibility’s too much or whatever, demand Carson hand it off to you. And I’ll let you have all me half-days for the next three—no, _six_ months. And—and I’ll never make another comment about how freakishly tall you are for the rest of me life.” That last offer was particularly galling, but needs must.

“Why are you doing all this?”

Jimmy growled. “You bloody well _know_ why! I love him.” There. He’d said it aloud. The world hadn’t ended. His father hadn’t risen from the dead to box him about the ears. He hadn’t transformed into a girlish, limp-wristed lavender. Everything was the same, and everything was all at once entirely different.

Brow furrowed as if confronted with an especially baffling mathematical equation, Alfred muttered, “You love him?”

How could Jimmy possibly explain it to the ginger dolt when he could barely make sense of it in his own head? _Inhale, exhale._ He pictured Thomas’ face in his mind’s eye, and bravery rose up to meet him. “Me mum used to say that everyone has someone waiting out there in the world for them. That’s what he is to me; he’s me person. It’s not because he’s devilishly witty, or because he does his damnedest to protect me at every opportunity, or because he smokes like a film star—or at least, it’s not _only_ those things. Knowing him… has made me better. And I _want_ to be better, I want to be that much closer to the man he deserves.”

“You love him,” Alfred repeated. It was no longer a question.

Jimmy nodded. “And I’d swear to it in front of Mr Carson. I’d swear to it in front of—” Here his voice wavered for a moment. “—in front of the _police_ , if I had to. But I won’t go back to being the vain, cruel boy I was. I refuse.”

Alfred’s skin had blanched nearly to the muted grey of the roiling clouds behind his window. He said, almost to himself, “I didn’t think _you_ could love anyone.”

“Neither did I.”

Something in Jimmy’s gaze compelled Alfred to shift his focus to the pattern on the faded circle rug at the foot of his bed. His lips moved in silence, as if he were reciting a prayer, before he spoke. “Maybe… maybe what I saw were only a mad dream, and not worth mentioning to anyone.” A chorus of birds burst into song in Jimmy’s chest, flapping their wings. “But!” Alfred held up a warning finger. “If I see or hear _anything_ else, even so much as a _hint_ —”

“You won’t,” Jimmy said right away. “I swear it.”

Alfred groaned. “I’m going to regret this, I can already tell.”

Too dazed to laugh at the man, Jimmy surprised no one more so than himself by uttering a sincere, “Thank you. Truly.”

Alfred pulled a dreadful face, waved an arm in a vague, shooing motion, and began to turn down his bed for sleep. Taking the hint, Jimmy crept out into the corridor. He narrowly avoided jumping out of his skin at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered figure standing pressed up against the doorframe, eyes huge and glittering in the half-light. “Nosy, aren’t we?” murmured Jimmy in Thomas’ ear.

“Will he keep quiet, in your opinion?”

“Don’t know. I think so, yeah.”

“And those things you said in there—” Thomas ran his fingers through pomade-slick hair, a few dark tendrils escaping to fall across his brow. “—did you really mean them?”

Jimmy snorted. “You are daft, you know that?” he said. But then his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Shadow etched Thomas’ fine features into the picture of a boy whose hand had been slapped away one too many times. Truly, they’d both had a very long night. “O’course I love you,” Jimmy reassured him, as gently as he could. “I turned back _time_ to be with you.”

Thomas cast a doubtful look. “You know, I’m not certain it was actually _you_ who—”

“Hush now,” Jimmy cut in, taking him by the hand and urging him forward. “We’re going back to me room.”

“Jimmy,” whispered Thomas while he dug in his heels, “I don’t think it’s wise—not right after such a near miss—”

“That’s precisely the _point_ , Thomas. We don’t know what’s coming, not anymore. This could be our last night of freedom.” Jimmy craned his neck from one end of the hallway to the other then, quick as a wink, brushed a kiss against Thomas’ knuckles. “And if it is, I want to spend it with you in me arms.”

Thomas—well, _melted_ was the only word for it. “Soppy,” he said, a hitch in his voice. He allowed Jimmy to lead him with careful, measured footfalls over floorboards warped and creaky with age until a lone door stood between them and their safe haven. Thomas stood guard as Jimmy turned the knob. Buttery light spilled out through the crack, the quilted corner of blanket barely visible. Solemnity—a queer feeling of _ceremony_ —raised the tiny hairs at the nape of Jimmy’s neck. He stepped aside. As he passed him, Thomas said in a cheeky undertone, “I do hope you’ll prove to have been worth the wait, Jimmy Kent.” Instantly, the seriousness burst like a pricked balloon, replaced by something lighter and easier and every bit as important. Jimmy stuck out his tongue, then grabbed hold of Thomas’ sleeve so that when they moved forward, into territory as familiar and as mysterious as a modest, cramped bedroom could possibly be, they did so as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film Jimmy and Thomas go see is _Stolen Moments_ , released December 1920.
> 
> Next up is the epilogue.


	5. Boston, 1933

The top of the sign was circular, painted so as to resemble a moon-white clock face with spindly, ebony hands etched at three o’clock precisely. Underneath, in weathered, golden letters swooping across a black background, it read: _Sullivan’s Clock Shoppe & Repairs_. Jimmy squinted up at it while Thomas, with numb, freezing fingers, fumbled in his pocket for the keys. “I still think we ought to get the sign repainted,” said Jimmy, swaying a little from the drink.

Beside him, metal clinked against the pavement, and Thomas swore under his breath. “It wouldn’t be worth the money it would cost. People know the name Sullivan around here. They trust it. Who are we? Two foreigners they don’t know from Adam. It’s not good business.”

Jimmy turned. Thomas was crouching on the front stoop, hands feeling about blindly. Disappointingly, the heavy winter coat obscured the curve of his backside. Thomas had a lovely arse. Sometimes, on slow days in the shop, Jimmy would leave things lying about on the floor just to watch him bend to pick them up. “Honestly, you talk as if we’re fresh off the boat. Our _neighbours_ have known us for years. And they like us. The other day at the market, Mrs Schneider stopped me to ask if you’d gotten over your cold yet.”

“Aha!” Thomas held up the keys, triumphant. Light glinted off them from a nearby street lamp. Jimmy reached out to help him up, but didn’t allow his hands to linger long. Mostly the street was deserted at this time of night, but another New Year’s reveler might appear around the corner at any moment. Thomas unlocked the door. As they stepped inside, the little bell above their heads jangled merrily. The show windows stared out like enormous eyes, the lines of display tables separating the floor space into shadowy corridors. They didn’t bother with the lamp in the corner; if necessary, the two men could’ve navigated the storefront blindfolded.

Relatively safe in the semi-darkness, Jimmy threaded Thomas’ arm through his, their bodies squeezed between a row of gleaming carriage clocks and the glass case filled with pocket watches and delicate watch chains, atop of which squatted the heavy, metal register. “Admit it,” said Jimmy, “it’d be dead thrilling to see our names together in bloody great letters like that: _Kent and Barrow, Clockmakers_.”

“ _Barrow and Kent_ ,” Thomas replied automatically. “Alphabetical.” He frowned. “Not that I’m actually _considering_ it.” Jimmy’s grin was widened by the promise of triumph—that, and more gin than was good for him.

The entrance to the backroom was tucked away between two towering grandfather clocks. Beyond it, a battered work table dominated the space, three clocks on top in various states of deconstruction. Other timekeeping devices were scattered about on shelves, labeled with little white tags. Pale, wavering squares danced over the desk and accounts book from the moonlit window. Jimmy quietly took advantage of Thomas double-checking the lock at the rear to scoop up some tools he’d left lying around, slipping them into their leather satchel.

Always the lingering smell of oil and wood polish conjured up memories of the early days for Jimmy—when Thomas was only an assistant, and Jimmy had to sneak into the shop to help him with the fiddly work that required two good hands. Sullivan must have _known_ , but he never said a word about it. Mrs Sullivan still sent them letters from time to time, urging them to visit. Thomas had arranged things so that, come Spring, they would.

An old kerosene lantern lit the way up the stairs as it swung from Thomas’ arm. His unwounded palm clasped tight to the bannister, betraying that he was—despite appearances—nearly as squiffy as Jimmy. Funny, he only recalled sips from a snifter of whisky at the start of their evening at the club and a glass of champagne in hand as the clock was poised to strike midnight. Thomas must have drunk more while Jimmy was distracted whirling about on the dance floor. Mostly he had danced with Donald, who had worn a fetching new frock and a pair of heels that demanded showing off, then Jake, then Neville. They were mates, the five of them. Jake and Don had both been to dinner at the flat once or twice, but not Neville, who had a wife and children waiting for him at home.

The married ones always made Jimmy melancholy for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. He supposed it was because they had to be false even in private, even in their beds. He couldn’t imagine living so sad a life as _that_.

The door to the flat stuck—again. In the end, Thomas had to wiggle the key in the hole and press his shoulder into the wood to convince it to give way. _Perhaps I ought to be pestering him about fixing the door before the sign_ , Jimmy thought idly. He hung up their coats and hats while Thomas lit two cigarettes side-by-side between his lips, removing one to pass it off to Jimmy’s waiting hand. The kerosene lantern was extinguished and put away, replaced by the soft glow of lighting overhead. Little had changed about the sitting room since Mrs Sullivan decorated it decades earlier, save the addition of heavy, impenetrable curtains hung on every window. Certainly the sagging armchairs and cheap framed watercolors were old-fashioned, but in a way Jimmy much preferred over the stuffy, look-don’t-touch atmosphere of the great houses he’d once served. Age had worn down the sharp corners of the end table and beaten the overstuffed sofa into submission. It was charming, and more importantly, it was all theirs.

Exhaling a luxurious cloud of smoke, Jimmy removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie. Gradually, tense muscles relaxed beneath his skin, a keyed-up pulse steadied and slowed. Maybe they weren’t entirely safe anywhere, but the entrance to their flat was held fast by a lock and two bolts; they were as protected within its walls as they could hope to be. He inclined his head to speak to Thomas—whose posture was upstairs-perfect, and whose jaw was clenched, and whose fag was dripping ash onto the wing tips of his shoes. Jimmy hadn’t noticed until now—not in the disorienting crowd at the club, nor out on the darkened streets—but Thomas was _unhappy_. He even wore the little parallel lines between his brows that emerged when a clock had been treated especially badly.

_Why_ he was unhappy, Jimmy hadn’t the foggiest. They’d sold the expensive, hand-carved, walnut grandfather clock that afternoon. Then they’d toasted the New Year surrounded by raucous music and funny, bizarre, wonderful people. And finally they’d come to rest at their favourite place in all the world. A good day, all in all, Jimmy would’ve thought. No matter. He would cheer up Thomas. He had loads of practice.

He strode over to the cupboards in the kitchen, stubbing out his spent cigarette in one of their many, many ashtrays on the way. Throwing one open, he stuck his head into the darkness and shoved to the side a couple of vinegary reds they’d bought on the cheap and immediately regretted. “Now where’s that Scotch we were saving for a rainy day?” Quick as a wink, Thomas stood behind him, hauling him back by the waist. Pale, long fingers swept into Jimmy’s field of vision and shut the cupboard door with practiced ease.

“No more drinks for you. You’ll have a terrible headache tomorrow morning as it is,” said Thomas. Although his lover couldn’t see it, Jimmy pulled a face. Thomas continued in a quiet, authoritative tone Jimmy thoroughly enjoyed in the throes of ecstasy, and rolled his eyes at in all other circumstances, “Tea first. Then bed.”

Thomas reached for the kettle on the shelf with his injured hand. As was his habit, he’d taken off the leather glove once they’d stepped inside their home, slipping it into his pocket. Tender, pockmarked skin was painted all colours pink and white, rendered seemingly from an artist’s brush. When the hand bore the weight of the kettle, it buckled—a little—but Thomas gritted his teeth and heaved it into the sink. Water gushed from the tap. He gingerly clenched and unclenched a fist, eyes shadowed with pain.

Without really thinking about it—so natural and commonplace was the gesture—Jimmy took the offending hand in both of his, massaging warmth back into the muscles and tendons with an efficiency that had emerged from years of repetition, and a tenderness that had emerged from years of intimacy. “Can’t believe you forgot your winter gloves. You _know_ the chill air makes you ache.”

“ _You_ should have reminded me. Now that I’m entering old age, I can’t be expected to remember every little thing,” Thomas said, but with none of the playful bite that Jimmy loved so. His voice was flat. Still he wouldn’t directly look at Jimmy.

“Since when is forty-three ‘old age?’”

“Since it’s nine years older than you.”

“Eight and nine months,” replied Jimmy, thinking the two of them might have a good laugh about how much of a kid he sounded.

Thomas turned off the tap, his expression carefully neutral. Gently, he extricated his palm from Jimmy’s grasp to light the stove.

“‘Old age,’ me foot,” Jimmy muttered. “You’re utterly ridiculous.” He snatched Thomas’ pocket watch from its spot inside his waistcoat. “I’m going to check on your clock.”

“You wound it just this morning,” Thomas said. Jimmy ignored him and walked back into the sitting room. Of all the timepieces in the flat above or the store below, only one of them was truly _Thomas’_ clock. It was a brass mantel model he’d painstakingly restored from little better than scraps. Whenever they invited someone over—rare though the occurrence was—Jimmy always made a point of showing it off. It resided on the mantelpiece between two photographs. The left showed the Sullivans standing beside the storefront, the now-grown daughters frozen in time as doe-eyed pixies in cotton dresses and black boots; the right captured Jimmy’s mother perched proudly on the bench of a baby grand, glowing from the inside out.

Jimmy compared the times shown on the clock face and on the face of the pocket watch—identical down to the second. Not that he’d expected anything else. Thomas was correct; after breakfast, Jimmy had wiped the brass clean with a rag and wound the mechanism tight. Thomas had crept up and placed a hand on his shoulder, whispering sweetness into his ear. In that moment, Jimmy had been reminded acutely of the first time Thomas ever showed him how to wind a clock, broad chest pressed firmly against his back, hand grasping Jimmy’s own—

No. Wait. Thomas hadn’t touched Jimmy at all then, however much Jimmy had wished him to. It had taken months for Thomas to be brave enough for that, although their first night together would have been worth waiting _years_ for, Alfred or no.

Anyway, the _point_ was, usually Jimmy fiddling with Thomas’ clock put Thomas happily in mind of Jimmy fiddling with certain other things, yet there he stood, stony-faced as he poured steaming water into two mismatched cups sitting on the countertop. Jimmy had learned long ago that clocks were easy to fix, once you’d gotten the trick to them. People were another matter.

“The tea is ready.”

As Jimmy sipped his strong, black cuppa—he’d never understand why Thomas drowned perfectly good tea in milk and sugar—he decided to get right to the heart of the matter. Thomas didn’t appreciate being pushed, as a rule, but sometimes he damn well needed pushing.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” Thomas said blithely. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Try again.” Jimmy set his cup and saucer down on the countertop. “Neither of us is getting any sleep until you tell me the truth.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Jimmy grinned. “You knew that already.”

With one of his queer, soundless sighs, Thomas deflated. He shifted his cup to rub one of his eyes with the heel of his good hand. He whispered, “You danced with every man in that bloody place but me.”

Jimmy blinked. “I danced with three men. Three of our _friends_.” He leaned in close, lightly touching Thomas’ arm. “And that New Year’s kiss you gave me at midnight didn’t leave any doubt about who I was going _home_ with.”

A smile flickered across Thomas’ face, and relief washed over Jimmy. “It wouldn’t have put me in such a mood,” Thomas said, “only—only I had a strange, black thought while I was watching you with Donald, and I couldn’t get it out of me head.” Jimmy squeezed the muscle beneath his fingers, a wordless request to go on. Thomas drained his tea, gently setting the cup and saucer down in the sink. “I thought, _If he leaves me, I’m going to have to go off and be a butler._ ”

Jimmy felt his eyebrows rise up toward his hairline. “Why on earth would you do a thing like _that?_ You didn’t even _like_ being in service. Neither did I. It’s why we left.”

“I told you it was odd.”

“And you have our shop.”

“I _know._ ”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, ’cause I’m never, ever going to leave you.”

Thomas made a noncommittal sound.

It puzzled Jimmy that Thomas should be jealous of the fellows at the club, when the two of them were well known within those walls as a couple of _old marrieds._ Then again, Jimmy usually saved at least one dance for Thomas, and he hadn’t. It occurred to him that he hadn’t done so last time, either. People weren’t very much like clocks, but happiness _was._ There was the day-to-day business—the winding, and the polishing, and so forth—but if you wanted things to be at their best, a little extra care and attention was required every so often.

Craning his neck, Jimmy pressed a kiss to Thomas’ cheek, savouring the slight scratch of stubble. “Next visit to the club, I’m going to convince Victor to let me have a go at the piano,” he said. “It’s been ages since I’ve played your favourite.”

Thomas snorted. “I don’t reckon the other blokes would much appreciate Debussy.”

“That’s just too bad for them, innit? And then I expect a turn around the floor, so mind you keep your dance card empty.”

“Jimmy, you don’t have to—”

“I _want_ to. In fact—” Jimmy put aside his half-finished tea and inched backwards into the sitting room, a hand held out imploringly. “—I want to dance with you right now.”

“If you turn on that gramophone, it’ll be our heads. It’s nearly two in the bleedin’ morning.” But Thomas was smiling, properly smiling. Although he was lovely to look at all the time, he was especially handsome when his face went all soft the way it only did for Jimmy—eyes shining bright like stars, lips quirked up higher on one side than the other, as if years of unhappiness had left his mouth not quite certain what to do.

Heart stuttering in his chest, Jimmy threw his man a cheeky wink. “We can make our own music, can’t we, Mr Barrow?”

The flat was too cramped and they were too drunk for anything so complicated as the foxtrot; instead the two men shuffled back and forth across the floor, arms wrapped tightly around one another. Jimmy, who normally put up a fuss if he wasn’t allowed to lead, rested his head upon Thomas’ shoulder and let himself be pulled along. He hummed the opening bars to the record Thomas had gotten him for Christmas that year, which had already become one of his favourites. The chorus popped into his head.

“ _Someday he’ll come along_

_The man I love_ ,” Jimmy sang, muffled by the soft wool of Thomas’ suit jacket. His singing voice was low and scratchy, not half so nice as his piano playing, but he knew it pleased Thomas to hear it all the same.

“ _And he’ll be big and strong_ —”

Here, he squeezed Thomas’ waist. 

“— _The man I love_

_And when he comes my way_

_I’ll do my best to make him stay._ ”

He continued to hum as he searched for more of the words. The clock chimed on the mantelpiece, announcing the hour throughout the cozy flat, and Jimmy thought, _Yes, that’s right._ They skirted around an end table.

“ _He’ll build a little home_

_Just meant for two_

_From which I’ll never roam_

_Who would—would you?_ ”

Thomas dipped him so suddenly his head was spinning even before Thomas bent down to kiss him soundly. _Oh_ , this was far lovelier than the New Year’s kiss, because Thomas did that very clever _thing_ with his tongue that never failed to leave Jimmy weak in the knees. When they broke apart, Thomas said, “Time for bed,” with a delicious growl to his voice which indicated he was not speaking of _sleeping._

Jimmy cleared his throat. “Yes. Good. That’s very—yes.”

Thomas laughed and hauled him up.

It was a point of pride for Jimmy that, thirteen years on, they could still be so overtaken by passion that they didn’t make it to the bedroom. Many a happy night had been spent making hungry, fevered love on the sofa, or in front of the fireplace, or—on one memorable, if wobbly, occasion—atop the dining room table. However, a history of having to sneak into one another’s rooms in the dead of night made _their_ bedroom the most special place of all.

For one thing, the brass bed was enormous. Perhaps it would not seem so to other people, but a life spent resting on a thin, lumpy mattress no bigger than a postage stamp in someone else’s drafty attic tended to alter one’s perspective on the matter permanently. Jimmy settled himself at the head, already stripped to his underthings by skillful valet's hands, while Thomas dashed back to the door to lock it—a vestigial habit neither of them could quite shake. He was rather undressed himself; it took mere moments for him to shed the rest of his clothes and, now entirely nude, join Jimmy on the bed. He carefully removed Jimmy’s underwear with his teeth, a delightful trick he typically reserved for birthdays.

Before he lost all presence of mind, Jimmy reached over toward the nightstand and turned on the lamp. Thomas’ skin was awash in yellow, illuminating the muscular arms, the soft belly, the hair shining silver at his temples. For all that Thomas complained about his body going to seed with age, Jimmy strongly, _strongly_ disagreed. “C’mere,” he said, digging his fingers into the firmness of Thomas’ back to drag him up into a kiss.

As their tongues slid against one another, drawing sparks up and down the length of Jimmy’s spine, he pressed the palm of his hand flat against Thomas’ chest. He trailed it down, down until he wrapped his fingers around an eager, erect cock. Thomas pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, his wet mouth brushing against Jimmy’s cheek. Moving along the shaft in firm strokes, Jimmy murmured, “You are a very silly old man, if you think I would give this up for _anything._ ” He dipped lower to caress the bollocks.

Thomas arched helplessly into the touch. “So when— _ngh_ —when _I_ call meself ‘old’ I’m bein’ ridiculous, but when _you_ do it, it’s— _mmm, yes_ —it’s perfectly reasonable.”

Jimmy grinned. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Hands trembling, Thomas reached down and wordlessly urged Jimmy to loosen his grip. With no small reluctance, he did so. Thomas journeyed lower—teasing nips and kisses marked a path from the column of Jimmy’s throat, to his ribs, to his navel. He writhed against the blanket while Thomas sucked a love bite just above the jut of hip bone. “My beautiful boy,” he breathed against overheated skin.

Jimmy might’ve argued that he would be thirty-five this year, and as such could not rightly be called anybody’s _boy_ —but Thomas sat up a little, his lovely, finely-wrought face hovering over Jimmy’s aching prick. Time seemed to turn to syrup as he leaned in to press feather-light lips to the head. Pleasure spasmed through Jimmy.

“Thomas, wait.”

Immediately Thomas pulled away, brow knit with worry. Then he caught sight of Jimmy’s expression, and equal measures of lust and mischief crept back into his features. He crawled upwards so that they lay face-to-face. He purred in Jimmy’s ear, in a rather poor impression of a certain stuffy, English butler, “Shall I fetch the petrol, James?” It was something halfway between a game and an old, private joke between them, borne of the mutual assertion that Mr Carson was the least erotic thing in the world. Whoever broke character first, lost.

Jimmy’s mimic was worse, but he made up for a lack of technical skill with enthusiasm. “Yes, I think you’d better, Mr Barrow,” he said, turning up his nose and curling his lip, “although I reckon you’ll first have to remove the stick from me arse.” There it was, for just a fraction of a second—a twitch of the mouth, a crack in Thomas’ upstairs veneer. _Got you,_ Jimmy thought, and snickered when the other man sighed dramatically in defeat.

Thomas turned away, wriggling his body until he was halfway off the bed, rooting ’round the nightstand drawer for the small glass jar. _Finally_ Jimmy was treated to a proper view of that backside which so often drove him to distraction. Without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted a hand to smack it across one cheek, just hard enough to sting. Thomas jumped practically a foot in the air. When his head whipped back over his shoulder, Jimmy did his best to arrange his features into the picture of innocence.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” Thomas said. He held the petrol jelly jar in his hand.

Jimmy smirked like a snake. “I certainly hope so.” Thomas pounced on him, drawing out a yelp that was half surprise and half delight.

“Hush now. You’ll wake the neighbours,” said Thomas, kissing Jimmy with such thoroughness that he didn’t notice the wandering finger until it was suddenly inside him up to the first knuckle. At Jimmy’s indignant _hmph_ , Thomas arched an eyebrow. He burrowed in deeper until he hit upon that spot that had Jimmy biting back a moan and grinding his hips down into the sensation.

Slowly, slowly he worked Jimmy open. Another petroleum-slick finger joined the first, and the rhythmic pressure urged heat to pool low in Jimmy’s stomach. When Thomas deliberately brushed against that magic nub over and over, pride was thrown to the winds. Hands roved about every bit of Thomas they could reach—dancing across shoulder blades, kneading firm thighs, teasing dark locks loose from their already tenuous pomade hold. Between pants, Jimmy said, “Don’t make me beg, you bastard.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” said Thomas, voice shaky and wracked with lust—still, he withdrew his fingers, pressing a sweet, almost chaste kiss to Jimmy’s brow.

Heart in his throat, Jimmy took in the delirious sight of Thomas applying petrol to his own erection, while Jimmy positioned his body better upon the pillows, so that Thomas might more easily line himself up with his entrance, so that Thomas might more smoothly thrust inside.

Talking more or less ceased at this point. With this particular dance, each man knew how to read his partner remarkably well. When Jimmy dug his heels into the small of Thomas’ back, it meant he wanted Thomas to move more relentlessly within him. And when Thomas tilted his head in that certain way, he wanted Jimmy to nibble on his ear. And when Jimmy’s breathing took on that sharp, urgent quality, and he squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he saw stars, it meant he was very, _very_ close indeed.

The soft, unblemished palm which had focused its attention on stroking Jimmy’s cock now quickened its touches, wrapping itself about the shaft tightly, almost to the point of discomfort. Thomas whispered Jimmy’s name with the reverence of a prayer, and he leaned up for one, two messy kisses before Jimmy threw his head back as he went hurtling over the edge.

He saw only blackness, but his whole universe was Thomas—warm puffs of breath, downy hair prickling against tender skin, hips rocking firmly against him—then, when Thomas followed swiftly after—a pulsing deep inside of Jimmy, a blossoming pleasure-pain where Thomas bit down on his shoulder to muffle a groan.

They floated blissfully back down to earth, and Thomas gingerly pulled out of Jimmy to collapse beside him on the sheets. Their chests heaved in counterpoint, first one, then the other. The steady ticking of the alarm clock on the nightstand was loud as a drum amidst the subdued quiet of early morning. Jimmy opened his eyes, and gazed at the familiar items surrounding him with the intensity of a stranger—a wardrobe in the corner with his and Thomas’ clothes all jumbled in together—two cologne bottles lined up neatly in front of the vanity mirror—and leaning against the bedside lamp, a crudely-rendered metal man Jimmy had made once as a joke from worn-out parts, which Thomas still kept two years later. Warmed from the inside out, he lifted a boneless arm to trace the marks left by Thomas’ mouth at his shoulder and his hip. By the time he took his morning bath, they would be dark and vivid against his skin, more physical and real than even a band of gold slipped on a finger.

A helpless wave of emotion rose up within him, tightening his throat. “I love you so much, Thomas,” he said. “If I ever did anything to make you doubt that—”

“You haven’t,” Thomas said at once. He twined the fingers of his wounded hand with Jimmy’s own. The contrast was obvious even in the poor light—golden and smooth, pale and marred. Like opposite sides of the same coin. “It were only a moment of madness.” Thomas ran his thumb along the delicate blue vein at the inside of Jimmy’s wrist. “I won’t be so foolish again.”

With some effort, Jimmy rolled over and buried his nose where Thomas’ neck and shoulder met. “You had better not be. I don’t appreciate the competition.” Thomas _hmm_ ed agreeably, and then he was pulling away, sliding out of bed. Jimmy let him. He dozed a little, ears picking up the telltale sounds of Thomas moving about—the subtle _shush-shush_ of a robe pulled over a naked body, the creak of the loose floorboard outside the washroom door, the splash of water in the sink. When he returned, Thomas roused Jimmy with a damp flannel which he used to wipe the mess from Jimmy’s torso. He turned onto his front so Thomas could clean, very gently, between his legs.

Jimmy adjusted his head, resting his cheek upon the pillow to gaze at Thomas, who sat cross-legged beside him on the bed. The flannel was neatly folded in his lap. He was wearing Jimmy’s robe, and a sparse, dark forest of hair emerged from the “V” of the collar. Some nights, Jimmy raked his fingers through that softness, again and again, until he drifted off to sleep. “If you get under the covers with me right now,” he said, “I’ll iron all those clothes tomorrow morning. And I’ll wash the cups in the sink.”

“No, you won’t,” said Thomas.

“No, I won’t,” agreed Jimmy, and he wrapped his arms and legs tightly about Thomas’ body, so he couldn’t leave.

“For God’s sake, Jimmy, I’m not going off to war.” But he plied Jimmy with kisses until he loosened his hold. As he padded back out into the hall, Jimmy took special pleasure in the rosy blush that burned across the bridge of Thomas’ nose.

With the residual heat from both his lover’s bare skin and their earlier exertions rapidly fading, Jimmy had no choice but to retreat beneath the two heavy, family-sized quilts sprawled atop the bed, which Mrs Schneider had pushed into their arms the winter before, when their boiler had given out in the middle of a particularly brutal cold snap. He yanked the sheets up to his chin. Several minutes later, Thomas returned, fresh cigarette trailing smoke from between his lips. A bundle of clothes was thrown over one arm, and he held a glass of water in each hand. One he set down on the nightstand at his side of the bed, the other he handed over.

Jimmy sipped while Thomas stood in front of the wardrobe, examining each article of clothing intently in the dim light. Some pieces were hung up straight away; some were folded and piled up on a chair to be ironed the next day. He worked in quick, efficient movements, pausing only to brush loose, wet hair out of his eyes. It brought to Jimmy’s mind a variation on an old saying— _You can take the man out of service…_

“What in the world are you thinkin’ about?”

Jimmy blinked. Thomas’ hands were empty now. He regarded Jimmy with a wry twist to his mouth that suggested he’d caught Jimmy staring some time ago. Jimmy grinned up at him, shameless. “Only that I’m the luckiest chap in Boston. I’ve a devastatingly handsome valet, and I don’t even have to pay him.”

Thomas walked to his nightstand, indulging in one final puff before stubbing out the crumpled remains in a cheap, souvenir ashtray. “That rather depends on what you mean by _pay._ ” He knelt to access the second, lower drawer. Nudging aside a bundle of letters from Baxter—technically she was _Mrs Molesley_ now, but the name brought a crowd of unfortunate images to Jimmy’s mind—he instead removed a tan-coloured book, spine cracked and several pages dog-eared. He climbed into bed, shedding the robe once he was beneath the warmth and weight of the blankets. “You’ll be up early helping me open the shop, after all.”

Jimmy groaned. “No one wants to buy a clock on sodding New Year’s Day, Thomas. They’ll all be sleeping off tonight’s drink, like we would be, if you weren’t such a pillock.”

“We’ll see,” said Thomas in an unyielding manner that indicated the matter was closed. He sat up against the headboard, knees bent so he could lean the book against his thighs. From Jimmy’s vantage point lying on his side upon the mattress, the lamp behind Thomas’ profile lit up around him in a golden halo.

“Are you staying up?” asked Jimmy.

“Only for a few minutes. I want to read a bit.”

Thomas rustled the pages, searching for his place, and a glint of crimson flashed across Jimmy’s vision for a moment. He couldn’t quite read the title before it disappeared behind the rise of the quilt, but he knew what words were etched into the front well enough. Every couple of years or so, _The Time Machine_ made its reappearance from some half-forgotten corner where Thomas had hidden it away. He would, with the slow, deliberate concentration of a man on a mission, wade through the sea of words from cover to cover. Then off the little hardback went to the bottom of the wardrobe or on top of a too-high shelf or another unlikely place where he would somehow find it just as soon as he had need of it again.

Dimly, Jimmy recalled that the book had come into Thomas’ possession around the time they’d first confessed their love for one another—thirteen long years ago—but otherwise he didn’t understand the fascination. _Why do you love that book so?_ he’d asked once.

_I don’t know if I_ love _it,_ Thomas had answered, a thoughtful frown drifting across his features. _I just have to read it every so often. To remember._

_To remember what?_

Eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. _D’you know, I can’t recall._

The two of them had promptly dissolved into helpless giggles.

Now, Jimmy shut his eyes, listening to the alarm clock ticking out the seconds, and to the slow, steady rhythm of Thomas breathing. As his limbs grew heavy, a memory settled over him like a veil, a memory from a time and place long forgotten—lying in a different bed, thinking of clocks, someone else’s warm, soft body next to him. Jimmy jolted awake, and he remembered everything.

He could see now that neither of them had forgotten all at once. In the beginning, they had whispered to one another about the future to come very often, pooling their collective knowledge to construct their shared plans, and to better fill the tin box of money tucked away beneath Thomas’ bed. But as the timelines diverged, what they knew of their old lives mattered less and less. By the time they were aboard a steamer chugging across the ocean—Thomas staring out at the horizon, Jimmy being sick over the railing—those alternate days and months and years felt like nothing so much as a mad dream, absurd and unlikely in the streaming light of day.

“Thomas,” said Jimmy, and urgency must have painted his tone, for the other man looked up straightaway. “I know why you keep reading that book.”

He thought he would have to say more, but recognition immediately flared to life behind Thomas’ eyes. He sat frozen, red lips parted slightly—then, in the smallest possible voice, he muttered, “Oh, good Lord”—and dove under the quilts, pulling them over his head.

“Oi, come back here,” Jimmy said. He struggled to lift him back up.

“The _things_ I did. I snuck into your room, and I—and I… I were such a _fool._ ”

“ _I_ were a fool too. And what’s worse, I were a coward.” A pair of pale, earnest eyes peered from the top of the blanket. “But we didn’t muddle things too badly the second go ’round, now did we? At least, _I_ have no regrets.”

Slowly, Thomas sat upright. He closed the book and set it on the nightstand. “Are you certain about that, though?” he whispered. “I mean, knowing what you’ve given up—”

Jimmy fell back against his pillow with a solid _whump._ “Oh, _stop_ that, would you? We just had this conversation.”

“This is another matter, and you know it.” Jimmy opened his mouth to reply, but Thomas held up a hand to cut him off. “Other men are, well, other _men._ But you had a proper marriage, a _child_ on the way—I can never give you those things.”

“Did I ever ask you to?”

Thomas sighed. “In a few years, you might feel differently. You might want someone to pass on your legacy.”

“What, like Terry the stock boy?”

“Be serious.”

Jimmy looked him dead in the eye. He took Thomas’ hands in each of his. “The life we live comes with risks and secrets. Believe it or not, Thomas, I understood that when I signed on. And I accept it gladly. Because I know how it feels to be trapped in a safe, appropriate existence that eats away at you every single day. Even when I weren’t thinkin’ of you, I had this _ache_ right here—” Wrapped tightly in his grip, he lifted a battered palm to rest directly below his sternum. “—a pain I carried with me always. In this life, I don’t ache anymore. I feel… at peace.”

They kissed then, soft and slow as if they had all the time in the world, which they rather did. When they separated, tears shone on delicately carved cheekbones glowing like porcelain in the dimness. Thomas said, “Jimmy, I—I ached for you also.”

“I know, love.” He nuzzled Thomas’ jaw. “Go to sleep.”

It was as if Jimmy had cast a magic spell. Without another word, Thomas flicked off the light and lay down, unconsciousness claiming him within the span of a few minutes. Jimmy rolled over so he faced the window, and saw a blinding stripe of light peeking through a gap in the curtains. He slipped out of bed. Ignoring the stinging cold, he pressed his nose up against the glass. Fat flakes of snow swirled down in an unexpected flurry onto their narrow, winding side street. Already glittering whiteness was settling onto the cobblestones and the eaves of the roofs and the peaked tops of the street lamps. By the time the city woke in the morning, it would be piling up in thick drifts.

The snow seemed almost to make everything clean and new for the fledgling year, to wipe away the grime and unpleasantness. But Jimmy knew it wasn’t so. The brown, ordinary world still lay underneath; it always would. But there was no reason he couldn’t _enjoy_ the snow, no reason he couldn’t savour the fresh start that endless expanse of white offered. Tomorrow, he would step outside and make his own marks upon that canvas, going about an unremarkable day made magical by a second, brighter world laid over top the old.

Jimmy had been out in the cold long enough. He closed the curtains properly, so all that mattered was the two of them. Eyelids heavy and heart light, he crawled back into bed, back to Thomas, who snuffled quietly in his sleep. His final thought before he joined him in slumber was of the simple joy that came with making a life for one’s self, and getting to wake up to it day after blessed day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> The song Jimmy sings to Thomas is "The Man I Love," written by George and Ira Gershwin. It's been covered by just about everybody, but the version I found that's probably closest to what Jimmy would have heard can be listened to [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0KNDCfwa-E).
> 
> I'd like to extend a huge thank you to both the Timeline section of the Downton Abbey wiki ([HERE](https://downtonabbey.fandom.com/wiki/Timeline)) and tumblr user fuckyeah-thommy's Full Thommy Storyline Playlist ([HERE](https://fuckyeah-thommy.tumblr.com/tagged/thommy-storyline)). These two resources were invaluable to me in regards to sorting out the order of events, getting dates correct, and nailing tricky bits of dialogue.
> 
> Finally, thank _you_ for reading this far! Any feedback is very much appreciated. You can also find me on tumblr as donnqnoble.


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